


The Really Big One

by mercilessBarnacle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Drama, Cutesy, Dating, Developing Friendships, Drama & Romance, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Multi, Other, Romance, Sex, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-07-09 03:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 151,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19881073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercilessBarnacle/pseuds/mercilessBarnacle
Summary: A shitshow of epic proportions: a collaborative monstrosity, in which an entirely different war begins.





	1. (It's) the Beginning of a New Age

The Bentley screamed through the streets of London. There had been a brief period, in the days following the would-have-been-apocalypse, where Crowley had considered - _considered_ \- that perhaps, just for a while, he might go the speed limit from time to time and try to appreciate the world he'd helped to preserve. The notion had lasted him an astonishing five minutes before he'd found himself stuck tailgating what had to be the most ancient human he'd ever seen behind the wheel of a jarringly ugly blue SUV.

At least the sentiment had been there.

Presently, the demon was en route to an increasingly familiar book shop. He and Aziraphale hadn't had time to properly celebrate the end of the End of the world, and as far as he was concerned, it was overdue. He knew the angel had a fondness for things that had been purchased, rather than miracled into existence, so he'd dug up a bottle of wine from his own private stash. The dusty bottle sat beside him in the passenger's seat, worth more than the net value of some humans, and positively ancient. In truth, Crowley wasn't sure whether he'd purchased the bottle or not. It might have been a whim he'd blinked into existence long ago and changed his mind about. Either way, it'd been sitting in storage long enough; he felt it had earned its material worth.

The car stopped on a dime in the space that was conveniently vacated just before his arrival. He grabbed the neck of the wine bottle with one hand, flung the door open and sauntered for the bookshop.

Predictably, it was closed.

Crowley entered anyway. "Angel?" he drawled loudly, more concerned with summoning Aziraphale than announcing his own presence. He dropped messily into one of the seats strewn about the shop, lolled his head aside to scan the spines of a few books as he waited.

Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the dusty little bookshop, papers scattered about and there was a mysterious series of thuds. Aziraphale was positively beaming. “Crowley,” he whispered, eyes alight with perhaps the most intense happiness that had ever existed. He gently closed his book- 50 Shades of Grey, (he was alone after all)- and placed it not quite on top of a seemingly disorganized pile. He didn’t want a certain demon to catch him reading that. Perhaps especially because it was a signed first edition. 

Some small things had changed, after Armageddon, but not much. All his favorite books were there, and now, surprisingly, he had his very own copy of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. He also owned an extensive library of harlequin works, though (embarrassingly) some were hardly new. 

Despite his best efforts to neatly extract himself from his piles, he sent more than one book flying across the little dimly lit room. “Oh!” he muttered to himself, quickly tidying his hair. “I’m a… what was it?” questioning himself in the small, antique mirror as he glanced over his appearance. He adjusted his vest and bowtie, ought to look presentable you know, and quietly gasped. 

“A hot mess!” he despaired. 

When it was as good as could be, he scurried into the front room of the bookshop, looking around wildly. Might as well been a child at Christmas time- his deep blue eyes filled with wonder, and expectation.

It would be a lie if Crowley claimed the angel's clumsiness was the least bit surprising to him. But then he was a demon, and lied often. Especially when it meant a chance to tease Aziraphale. He liked the way he wore the look it gave him, how it managed to fluster him even more when it never should have been possible, considering how flustered he was... well, all the time.

"Aziraphale!" He greeted warmly - warmly as Crowley ever did - which meant the words still dripped a misplaced sort of friendliness that made it sound as if he wanted something, even when he didn't. "Small earthquake, was it?" he inquired somberly, of the distinctive thuds he'd heard in the back room. He'd kept busy while he waited, not with any of Aziraphale's books (he'd like that too much), but by pressing the soles of his snakeskin shoes into the dull wood beneath them and pushing off, turning to-and-fro in the spinning chair, which creaked to a slow stop now that the other'd emerged.

He looked the same as ever - the same well-kept black jacket and jeans that bordered too tight, perfectly snug against his lithe frame. A flash of yellow glinted over the top of his dark sunglasses, and Crowley hoisted the bottle of wine by the neck, wiggling it enticingly in a manner unbefitting the vintage.

"I figured we owed ourselves a party."

“Why, Crowley, what an unexpected pleasure!” he said, genuinely delighted. His eyes lit up even brighter at the sight of the demon. Aziraphale always looked forward to these visits, though he never knew exactly when they would happen. The demon did as he pleased, and Aziraphale was happy enough to be in that category from time to time. He was, overall, grateful for the company. 

He chuckled and bobbed his head in a nodding fashion, “Aha… yes… well,” and, being flustered as accurately predicted, muttered something rather unintelligible about earthquakes, angels, and little bookshops. 

He perked right up at the sight of wine. He was nothing, if not predictable. 

“Oh, I do _so_ love a party!” he agreed jovially, clasping his hands together excitedly. “How does the back room sound?” 

The backroom was, unofficially, the hangout-with-Crowley room. It featured amenities such as a single houseplant (though spotless solely out of the tender love and care befitting an angel), two overstuffed chairs with a cozy coffee table placed in between, and the dimmest lighting Aziraphale could stand.

His smile was all but plastered onto his soft, sweet face. “I’ll fetch us some glasses awhile,” he chimed in a particularly sing-songy, angelic way, as he made off to the kitchen which was upstairs. 

He reappeared some moments later in the backroom. He had, as promised, two wine glasses, and biscuits for good measure.

"Wouldn't care to have it anywhere else," Crowley drawled with the barest hint of a smirk, a little too much emphasis on the s. The demon practically oozed his way up from his seat, all limbs and fluidity as he made for the back room.

It was so familiar now, he mused. Part of him still wondered how he ended up here. Saving the world, cavorting with angels, setting foot in Heaven to save a friend - who happened to be the aforementioned angel, mind you - it was all very unlike him. Generally, Crowley had never been the type willing to exert too much effort for the sake of anything. And shouldn't it have been unlike Aziraphale, too? Sometimes Crowley wondered if he was just too good at his job. He did his damndest not to be, but there was always something so fun about tempting the angel to trouble. So what if the 'trouble' ultimately led to the greater good? It was all ineffable anyway, right?

He probably should've spent the last couple thousand years dwelling on those things. It didn't really matter now, though he could appreciate the irony. Wholeheartedly.

The bottle thunked unceremoniously onto the table as Crowley settled into his-- _ahem_ , one of the oversized chairs. His shielded gaze locked onto the houseplant. There were always a distracted few moments, whenever he first arrived, in which Crowley scrutinized the poor thing, thoroughly distracted from the rest of the room. He continued to stare when Aziraphale returned - but ultimately tore his attention from the greenery in favor of looking upon the angel with a toothy grin.

Were Aziraphale anyone else, that sing-song tone would've grated on Crowley's last nerve. He'd been down to one for a number of decades. Thankfully, he found it endearing. 

"I hope I haven't interrupted anything."

Aziraphale pondered a moment, to make sure his secrets were stuffed away somewhere, anywhere other than this room. Steamy messages hidden within his first edition Oscar Wildes? Check. The empty pie tin from last night? Covered. He went through a fairly short mental list, items which he usually had tucked away whenever it had been too long between Crowley (or Gabriel) visits. Generally, they were things an angel ought not to have… or ought not to have done. Though his underclothes were also on the list, particularly in the case of Crowley visits. 

Only one thing was unaccounted for: an old, black and white photograph. Not just any. It was from 1880. The gallivanting and gavotting. The whole being-surrounded-discreetly-by-handsome-men. He prayed it wouldn’t turn up. Not that Heaven was listening.

He cleared his throat, chuckling nervously, “Interrupting? N-no, nothing. Of course not!” he laughed a bit too loudly. He distracted himself a moment by cooing to his sweet little houseplant. He gently tickled a leaf. He purchased it to make Crowley feel more at home (Aziraphale cared about that sort of thing) and he made sure to love it thrice a day. 

He plopped into the vacant chair, face brightening at the sight of the ancient looking wine. “Oh!” he exclaimed, “Why this looks scrummy!” He wondered, suspiciously, if this was miracled wine or legitimate… then decided it would taste good either way.

“Would you do the honors, dear friend?” he asked sweetly, looking expectantly at Crowley.

As Aziraphale went through his mental list, Crowley casually scanned the room, searching for similar secrets. He always did; couldn't help it. He didn't find any straight away, and there was a discreet sigh as he sank further into the seat that conformed to him just a little too well.

"You sound like I've interrupted something," the words were playfully suspicious. "If it's a bad time..." a thin hand gestured vaguely toward the door. Of course, Crowley had no intention of leaving. He wouldn't even if he'd barged in on something of actual import, because he was stubborn as they came and had never learned how to take no for an answer.

His upper lip twitched slightly as Aziraphale addressed the plant. He wanted to scowl. He didn't. He'd learned long ago that horticultural advice was lost on the angel. Part of him knew that he'd only even gotten the plant for his benefit, and some deep-seated, neglected corner of his soul felt it was bad form to tell him off for it. Besides - he had no choice but to grudgingly acknowledge, every time, the fact it was growing well. It drove him crazy; he longed for the day he'd see a spot in the midst of that vibrant green so the I-told-you-so would have real meaning.

Oh. He was staring at the plant again. His lip stopped twitching, and he looked back to Aziraphale blankly for a moment, letting his words sink in a few seconds too late. "Oh. Oh! No. I bought that for you." Emphasis on the word bought. He hadn't bought it for Aziraphale. He couldn't even remember buying it. The thought was what counted, right? "No honor among demons, anyway; it's all yours."

“No- you weren’t interrupting at all! Was just doing a bit of light reading,” he happily reassured him. It was a lie, but not completely. He was reading, after all. It was with this reasoning he kept a clean conscience. He added casually, maybe overly so, “No need to leave. You can stay as long as you like, you know”. 

He held the bottle up in what little light illuminated the comfy hangout spot (wanted Crowley to be comfortable, you know, perhaps get him to remove those pesky glasses of his), admiration sparkling in his eyes. He ran his fingers over the label, enjoying the smooth aesthetic and script. 

“Oh- oh why, thank you! It’ll be lovely, I’m sure!” he beamed. Aziraphale loved gifts. From Crowley especially. They made him feel special somehow. Wasn’t every day a demon such as Crowley got things for people, and certainly not because he enjoyed their company. That’s what Aziraphale told himself, anyway. 

He looked at him, a pout beginning to form. Just a bit of the lower lip puckered out, eyes like a sad lost pup. This type of pout had an unusual success rate concerning these matters, according to Aziraphale’s experiments. Well, just one or two experiments. And only on Crowley. It would be absurd to pout to anyone else.

“You won’t try any? Not even a smidge?” After a pause, just the right amount of silence to let the look sink into Crowley’s secretly gentle heart, “Not even with me?” He went heavy on the eyes.

"What were you reading?" Crowley didn't miss a beat. Aziraphale had indeed been flustered. More flustered than usual, which meant something was amiss . It may have been lost an anyone else, but to the demon, that hint of discomfort was like blood in the water. Still, the question was posed casually - not like that of a lion ready to pounce. Or a serpent set to strike, more appropriately.

He'd splayed his arms wide over the armrests, relaxed in the space as he always was. The glasses weren't off yet. Oftentimes, Crowley forgot he was wearing them. He'd grown used, over the centuries, to seeing things a good six shades darker. One had to wonder how their overuse might've affected his perception of the world without them.

"Of course I'm going to have some!" he exclaimed, as if it were obvious. "What sort of party would it be if I didn't? I just thought you should - Oh, don't _do_ that. You know I hate that." This time he did grimace, head lolling back in that melodramatic way it always did whenever Aziraphale did something too... too. Too _Aziraphale_. 

"My plan," he began, leaning forward (and refusing to look in his general direction), "Was to come here with this bottle, get supremely drunk-" clearly just because he (probably) hadn't miracled the bottle itself didn't mean he was above refilling it, "-together. It's a celebration, Aziraphale, that's how it works." It wasn't as scathing or condescending as it sounded. It never really was. After so much time together, Crowley just had an odd sixth sense for when the angel presumed he was being too nice. It was best to stomp out that notion before it had time to take hold -- though in this case, it was more a weak tap of the toe. "Go on, pour us a glass."

“Oh, ah… you know. A bit of this, a bit of that,” he squeaked, cheeks taking on a brief pink hue, head bobbing ever so slightly. “Bookshop, after all,” he mumbled, unconvincingly. He tried to avoid the inevitable disclosure but he knew he was bad at lying. It was only a matter of time. He’d never be able to live this one down and could already imagine the creative future taunts. Crowley always had a way of forcing it out of him, whatever it was that Aziraphale tried to hide. He had a knack for that sort of thing.

Briefly he wondered where that photograph had gone off to- his luck, it’d be in Crowley’s pocket already. That, he decided, was a lecture he didn’t at all want to have. He’d much rather admit to the book, and a dozen other embarrassing things, and perhaps make up a dozen more things to tell him for good measure. There was also a part of him that felt, well, guilty. He didn’t know why and didn’t bother getting to the bottom of it. He’d rather deliver the photograph, and the men, straight to Michael, rather than explain this potential wrongdoing.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he charmed, “Don’t mind me. What a wonderful little celebration!” Aziraphale was thrilled at Crowley’s response, as he assumed his pout did indeed convince Crowley to indulge with him. He made a mental note of this successful experiment, including relevant details and length of silence. Very sophisticated, these experiments.

He smiled his angelic smile, staring at the demon cheerfully as he opened the bottle, and filled the glasses. He plucked one up with a well manicured hand, passing it to his companion daintily.

"Bookshop. Right," Crowley hadn't sighted the picture. Yet. If he had, he would've snagged it ages ago, and there'd be no keeping it quiet. Aziraphale passed him a cup and he accepted it, lofting it slightly in a gesture of thanks. Then he heaved himself up, free hand sliding into a pocket as he began to saunter his way slowly about the room. It was usual for him, not to stay in one spot for long - but this time it was blatantly obvious he was searching. He'd figure out for what whenever he found it.

"Shall we have a toast, then?" He turned briefly to regard the other man, the innocence of the request in no way reflecting the cheeky grin on his face. To him, it was a game of hot or cold. He'd judge by the red spreading across Aziraphale's cheeks where exactly he wasn't meant to be, and be there. "I'm awful at them, but it feels right, doesn't it?" he picked up the top book on the stack nearest him, feigned curiosity at the cover.

It wasn't that Crowley didn't like reading. He'd quite enjoyed it, for a time. Then there'd come a point where he could rarely tell whether he'd already read something or not. It'd only taken a few wasted days and spoiled twist endings for him to decide that, unless Aziraphale explicitly recommended something, literature was not his forte. It had a knack for reminding him just how long he'd been around, a thought which often troubled him for reasons he couldn't always comprehend.

He put the book down and moved on, stealing occasional glances toward Aziraphale to judge his reaction as he drifted between one stack and the next.

“Well then. To… well, to us,” he cheered, raising his glass before taking a sip. He eyed Crowley closely, panic setting in for a brief moment, but his smile remained firmly stitched to his colorless face. He distracted himself by becoming incredibly interested in his glass, and the color of the wine. He noticed it smelled flowery, and was quite strong.

“Mmm… oh- my word, this is quite Heavenly..” he savored the robust and sweet flavor of the wine as it washed over his tongue, cheeks already flushed a subtle pink. Crowley always seemed to choose the best, sweetest wines. As far as Aziraphale was concerned, it was a talent.

“Where on Earth did you find such a marvelous bottle of wine?” he asked, innocently, though he still somewhat suspected it was miracled into existence. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing, as Crowley must’ve known his palate well enough to be able to, consistently, impress his taste buds. 

Aziraphale felt somewhat tortured. The picture could be anywhere. That meant it could also be somewhere else, far away from this room. He noticed the way Crowley circled about, more like a shark than a snake. He contemplated feigning a reaction, or confessing the erotic novel, just to kill the suspicion. He decided on a different angle. 

“Up to something, are you?” he said accusingly. “If you need something, you could ask, you know. Instead of planning a pretend celebration”.

"To us," Crowley echoed, and actually paused for a moment in the midst of his investigation to raise his glass- "saviors of the living world," -and take a measured sip. Of course, the moment Aziraphale'd passed it to him, the wine in the demon's own glass had transformed into something very red, and very dry.

"Isn't it? Almost sinful," he countered, unnecessarily. Then it was back to the hunt. He lifted the hand in his pocket to nudge his glasses down on his nose, bright yellow irises glinting sharply even in the low light of the room. He'd probably be oddly proud, to be compared to a shark. The serpent parallels tended to get a bit much, and sharks had those big brains - or was that only the dolphins? And the whales.

"I dug it out of my cabinet just for the occasion. It's been in there-" God knows how long, he thought, "-for an age. Maybe two. I think it's from Italy." He held the glass up contemplatively, swirling the liquid within, and had another drink. Perhaps he should've given the actual wine a taste before swapping it for his usual - but if Aziraphale liked it as much as he seemed to and wasn't just being polite, it'd be far too sweet for him anyway.

"Why is it you always think I'm up to something? 's not like I'm doing any work these days," there was an edge of pleasure to those words, uttered a little quieter as he passed directly behind the angel. His hand tapped the top of yet another stack of books - then drifted downward as those eyes narrowed in sudden focus on the distinctly yellowed, well-worn edge of a photograph peeking out between the pages of some endlessly long tome.

He plucked it free without regard for Aziraphale's place in the book, and eyed the photograph over his glasses. His brows lofted in surprise.

A distinctly shark-like grin spread over his features.

“Hm,” he said, curiously, lifting his eyebrows. “Italian”. 

It wasn’t miracled into existence after all. 

He continued to drink copious amounts far too quickly, in an attempt to work up some courage. He heavily considered admitting to the erotic novel, though he didn’t know how to go about admitting something like that. Not to someone like Crowley. Sexuality was a subject he’d distinctly avoided over the years.

The alcohol flowed and flowed. It was delicious. This led to blushing cheeks, a feeling of warmth that emanated from his belly, and, as alcohol tends to do, terrible judgment. He didn’t even peck at the biscuits- an obvious admittance that something was indeed amiss.

“Well, because you’re always up to something!” he retorted, though his heart wasn’t much in it. He was quite tipsy and made a silent promise to back off the wine a little. Wouldn’t want to go around spilling secrets, now. He shivered as Crowley meandered behind him, and adjusted his bow tie absent-mindedly, as he was prone to do when stressed or otherwise ruffled.

The wine, mysteriously, didn't seem to diminish from the bottle as it flowed. Crowley was making sure of that. He figured Aziraphale couldn't mind if he'd already gone to the lengths of buying it in the first place. The miracled replacement was just as good as the real thing, anyway.

Still holding the photograph after he'd spent a good long while staring at it, Crowley made his way back to his seat. He perched on the arm of the chair, and made a show of taking a nice, long drink from his glass (which also remained completely full). At some point during his journey, his glasses had been removed and tucked neatly into a pocket. He'd needed to see the photo in its full, sepia-toned glory.

"Were _they_ Italian?" finally, he flipped the photo so Aziraphale could see it, clutching it tight between two fingers on the off chance the angel made a dive for it. Crowley was practically staring through him, and his grin hadn't faded in the least.

He gasped, throwing his hands over his mouth. It was dramatic, as usual, but with some extra alcohol-related flair. His mind felt frozen, his eyes transfixed on the photograph, and the guilt was unrelenting. 

“Crowley! I- Well, you see-“ he stumbled over his words, turning deeper shades of crimson with each attempt, burning with shame as a lover caught in a betrayal. 

“They weren’t Ita- well maybe some- but they.. they were…“ Would that, he worried, be an admittance of the wrongdoing which had most certainly occurred? 

“It’s not- It’s not what it looks like!” But it was. It was exactly what it looked like. Perhaps, even far more than what it looked like. He’d spent many evenings in the _discreet_ gentlemen’s club on Portland Place, with many exciting men, and very _discreetly_ enjoyed every single one of them.

He looked up at Crowley as the blush crept its way to his collarbone, his blue eyes pleading for reprieve.

Crowley delighted in watching Aziraphale squirm. He wasn't sure why (he knew exactly why). As he stammered, and stammered, the demon simply regarded him with that same unrelenting gaze. For the barest hint of an instant, his grin turned almost predatory - and then it faded all at once with a subtle shrug and a faint nod of approval. He didn't really want to torture him. Not much.

Casually, Crowley tossed the photograph onto the table between them. "It looks like an awfully good time," he purred, approvingly. Alright. A bit of torture - but that was all!

He took a deeper drink from his glass. Crowley's mind was abuzz with a sudden onslaught of mental images involving every face in that photograph, which he'd already committed to memory. He had a very good memory. Deep down, he was convinced he remembered the curtains in the picture quite vividly. And, buried somewhere long forgotten, he remembered something else. A feeling. It crept its way from the base of his spine up to his chest, spread through his lungs and tightened about his sternum, thorned and unrelenting. He couldn't place it right away -- and then it dawned on him. 

Crowley hadn't felt anything quite like jealousy in centuries.

Thankfully, he was just as good at hiding things as he was remembering.

He drank.

"Book club," he extended the life line for him, lazy as it was. "Think you tried to drag me with you, once." He most definitely hadn't. "Anyway-" another half-smile, "I'm not up to anything. And frankly, I'm offended by the accusation."

“Y-yes,” he stuttered in a wavering voice, cheeks permanently reddened by this awful encounter (of which he was certain he’d never hear the end), “Jolly good time…”. 

He nodded excessively, as he tended to do when he knew something immoral had taken place, his lips tucked into a tight, thin line. He did his best to avoid Crowley’s eyes, but he could feel their penetrating gaze, as if they went through his very existence.

With his head still bobbing up and down slightly, he chuckled nervously and added, with a cracked voice and an absurd yet subtle fist pump, “Lots of books!”.

Aziraphale avoided making any book club remarks or any other photograph related remarks at all, really. He was, to put it lightly, mortified. The shame was hellfire on his cheeks, and they burned unnervingly. He’d been a very, very bad angel, hadn’t he?

The guilt wound its way around his soul, and he felt so unclean. Guided by an automatic response to feeling sinful, he briefly turned his eyes toward Heaven and, closing his eyes tightly, made a quick cross with his right hand- chin to chest, left shoulder to right. “Oh, do forgive me,” he whispered weakly, unsure if he was talking to Crowley or to God. He made a mental note to later inspect his wings, hoping with all his heart the feathers would still be a very pristine white. 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, guilt practically oozing from his pores. He said, in a tightened raspy voice, “Not up to something? In that case, I-I do apologize for not giving you the benefit of the doubt”.

Lots of books, certainly. Crowley was silent for a moment as he went about draining the remainder of his glass. He was still watching Aziraphale the whole while, slitted pupils narrowing to the point they might as well have disappeared. 

He glanced at his empty glass. When it refilled again it was with something decidedly stronger, the peaty scent of a good whisky beginning to fill the small space. He tapped his breast pocket, dug the glasses out between two fingers and flipped them open to slide back onto his nose, habitual. Crowley wasn't entirely certain just who Aziraphale was asking forgiveness either, but for once, he didn't chide him for it.

"You know," he contemplated aloud, after another sip of whisky that'd earned the tiniest cringe as it went down. He'd hoped the heat of it would combat the unpleasant feeling working its way through him - it was unpleasant, wasn't it? He wasn't sure of that either. It infuriated him, which, contrarily, a small part of him quite enjoyed. "I've heard Michael attends book clubs all the time. Saw it for myself once. Lot of awkward eye contact involved," the whites of his teeth flashed as he recalled a memory that absolutely did not exist. Well, there had been someone who sort of resembled Michael. Once. There had been a lot more than awkward eye contact involved where that encounter was concerned. "Who would've known we preferred the same literature?"

Crowley slid easily down into his seat, splaying himself out like he owned the place, as usual. "Speaking of Michael. Have you heard anything from upstairs?" he gestured with his glass, vaguely heavenward. Usually, he'd be busy tearing into Aziraphale for his discovery. For some reason, this time, he was trying to spare him the shame - at least a little bit.

“Oh,” he shook his head, disapprovingly, “I sincerely doubt we do”. 

Aziraphale’s guilt graciously let any and all other unpleasant sentiments drive a while. Not sure if Crowley had actually meant Michael ( _Michael!_ ), or book clubs, or, if (a small part of him, hoping it wasn’t true) he was talking about discreet gentleman’s clubs of his own. 

There was an anger beginning to simmer- and though entirely unfair- it was there all the same. He tried to stamp it out, throwing metaphorical holy water on the wrath he felt tempted into. _I forgive you_ , he thought to himself repeatedly. Crowley was a demon after all, sin was in his nature. _I forgive you._ Nothing would change that. _I forgive you_ , it was his mantra. Aziraphale himself was guilty of the same sin. 

_Maybe they should’ve been Italian. Maybe he’d go to Italy on vacation. See some book clubs over there._ His thoughts churned and grumbled angrily, _Over a century ago, honestly…_

He bit into a cookie gloomily. The mood hardly seemed celebratory. _Michael_ , he contemplated, bitterly. The mantra was ineffective.

After a long silence, uncomfortably long, he responded to Crowley’s inquiry a bit testily, “No. I don’t think Heaven wants anything to do with me now. Rather stuck here on Earth, I should think”.

"The point is," Crowley's drawl was growing more pronounced; he wasn't exactly slurring, but as he continued to drink (heavily) the liquor was edging its way into his voice. "I happen to know for the fact that plenty of angels - fallen or otherwise - are regular book club members, so I wouldn't look so glum about it." 

He really was trying to minimize the situation. At this point it seemed like he was only making it worse - he shrugged to himself in answer to the argument he was having with himself and decided to let it lie.

"Wasn’t that the whole point?" he asked, in regard to the last comment. "No sense in pouting about it. I've not heard anything from below either - which is a bit suspect, if you ask me. They aren't exactly the type to let things go."

He pouted. A real pout, not an experimental one. Guilt was driving again. It seemed like, no matter the context, Aziraphale never actually had the chance to drive. He wasn’t sure he wanted to drive anyway.

“You were _sleeping_ ,” he hastily huffed, “For an _entire century!_ ”. 

He added, petulantly, “ _I was so lonely without you_ ”. As soon as the words flew out of his mouth, he watched them go with surprise, and lamented them. The genuine regret was evident, from the furrowed brow, to the deep flush on his cheeks, to the newly formed tight line of his lips. But his eyes betrayed more. It was a spark of something, fleeting and intense, that was usually hidden- buried somewhere way down in his soul- and then it was gone.

He noticed his breathing was heavier and louder than it should be. 

He sighed and rubbed his eyes single handedly. Before Crowley could respond, Aziraphale said (rather aggressively) to no one in particular, “Right. Evidently your wine is too strong for me.” He forced a lack luster smile. 

He made no offer of or attempt at sobriety. In fact, he downed his glass and clanked it on the coffee table betwixt them noisily. Sure, he thought to himself darkly, blame the wine. He miracled the photograph away with a wave of his hand, unable to stand the sight of it any longer.

“I don’t suppose Heaven will let this go either,” he stated, trying to resume his usual composure. “I have a feeling they won’t be very forgiving. Not this time. We really- oh what was that expression?” After a few moments, his mind racing through his inner filing cabinet of modern lingo, he somewhat brightened, “Screwed the pooch!”

Crowley felt a small tic begin in his left temple.

"You can't go blaming me for things I wasn't even there for. I do my damndest to tempt you all the time and you hardly ever fall for it!" There was a measure of real irritation in his voice. Crowley had done his best to let the whole thing blow over, so to speak. He'd even tried to spare Aziraphale some of the embarrassment (despite being the cause of it in the first place)- which went against his very nature.

But then the next words came, and Crowley's jaw tightened visibly as he bit back whatever argument had been going to come next. How on earth was he meant to be angry at that? He couldn't! It was ridiculous. He lifted a hand to nudge up his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He really had planned for this to be a pleasant visit. How'd he always find so many ways to muck things up?

He was silent for a long while. Crowley had a tendency to do that sometimes - he claimed it was a symptom of eternity. Really, he just had a habit of getting lost in his own head. It'd been worse since the whole apocalypse business. He was at odds with himself a lot more often. Eventually, his hand fell and he reopened his eyes, which had squeezed tightly shut behind the glasses.

"Mm? Oh." He caught up to the conversation. He always seemed to manage to. "Yeah. Yeah, it's gonna be bad. I'm just going to stock up on holy water and hope for the best, I think."

The wine weakened. Considerably. The contents of Crowley's glass were beginning to smell more like turpentine with every passing moment.

Aziraphale was, for lack of better term, wound up. His nerves were in a raucous pile, and his emotions couldn’t decide which of them would tear up his insides first. There was a nagging voice in his mind, egging him on, telling him to dump 6000 years worth of stuff onto this poor soul. He wanted to let it go, on some level, but (being the anxious angel that he was) he didn’t. 

“Crowley” he stated, oddly and terrifyingly calm, considering the discussion prior. He poured himself another drink, though it looked and smelled suspiciously like a Malibu Bay Breeze. He was in a mood, and that mood required liquor. Liquor, and sugar. It was ridiculous of him, but he wanted the cherries, too. So he miracled them in. He picked one out of his cup, plucking the fruit from the stem with his teeth. It made a popping sound. He looked at him casually with a flat affect- no emotion, the ultimate mask for every emotion. 

“What do you mean you _‘try to tempt me all the time’_?”

"Oh, don't use that tone," Crowley groaned, sliding further down into the chair. He wasn't looking at him - not that Aziraphale would've known it. Sunglasses. His ultimate mask for every emotion. "Like you're about to start quoting scripture at me or something. You know full well I can't help it."

He downed what was left of his glass and reached to set it on the table between them. His turn to give it a rest. "I try to tempt you all the time," he repeated simply, slower. "All the time! Whenever I get the chance, really." Of course, Crowley didn't mean tempt him (though he'd tried that once or twice, too - but it'd always seemed like the fallout might be too much, and he quite liked having Aziraphale around without all the awkwardness). "With little things, mostly. You know, the forgivable sins. Nothing that'd get you into any real trouble. And most of the time you don't fall for it, anyway!"

He scowled. "It's the same as you tricking me into a good deed every once in a while."

Crowley could feel the look Aziraphale was giving him. He didn't like it, because he was good at it. He felt most of the angels were. It unnerved him enough when it came from someone like Michael or Gabriel, all holier-than-thou, but worn on Aziraphale's face it especially disturbed him; he didn't like to be confronted by that particular mask.

So Crowley did the adult thing, and continued not to look.

“Perhaps I didn’t word it properly…” he said, taking another sip of his cocktail. “and, by the way, it would be ever so lovely if you would look at me.” Aziraphale was not good at masking, not comparatively, but he tried. It always worked so well for Gabriel, whose smile never reached the eyes, and whose words were always without kindness.

“What do you mean by _try_?” He stared at Crowley, scrutinizing. Looking to meet those yellow eyes, to search them for answers, to find their light.

His voice wavered, and cracked, overflowing with the mixed emotions that he attempted to stifle. “Do you not realize that _everything_ I do with _you_ , is a sin?”

“I’ve not only been tempted by you, Crowley, but I’ve tempted _for you_ ,” he reminded him. His memories drifted to The Agreement. The blessings and temptings that both of them had provided on each other’s behalf.

He held up his drink as if toasting, which looked somewhat ridiculous in the context, all pink and fruity smelling, then drained his glass. 

His wings were still white (at least, they were the last time he checked, which was this morning), but deep down he felt he already knew the truth in his heart- he had Fallen.

Crowley tried to sink even lower, but found he'd hit a limit where doing so would border on ridiculous. Even if Aziraphale wasn't comparatively good at it, it still made his skin crawl. It didn't suit him.

Or maybe it did, the demon found himself considering against his better judgment. Aziraphale was still an angel, wasn't he, despite all the effort Crowley'd put into diminishing the role's relevance over the centuries. His gaze finally did shift to meet the other's, a haze of confusion and - now - something like guilt still hidden behind dark lenses, but those didn't work on him. Of course.

He opened his mouth to retort, then closed it dumbly. It wasn't worth reminding Aziraphale, he supposed, that even if he had been the one to come up with their arrangement, the stakes were probably significantly higher for the one who reported to Satan himself. Not that God didn't have the occasional bout of temper, but he'd take admonishment from the one who at least had a known penchant for forgiveness if he had a choice. Then again, God probably wasn't much a fan of him either.

Fortunately, they'd both been good at managing the Arrangement, and he'd never felt much need to worry. He would've hoped the other hadn't, either. Crowley'd been under the impression that it'd been beneficial to both of them, and to the world around them on the whole. The way Aziraphale spoke of it now, he was starting to think that maybe his assumption had been wrong.

That or he'd had too much to drink in too little time and was grossly misreading the situation. He'd go with that option, because the other was less appealing to him, and he'd prefer to worry about it later, in the privacy of his home, when he could rant and rave and argue with himself until he'd figured it all out.

He smiled faintly, and spread his hands. "I was good at my job when I had one, wasn't I?" he reached for his glass again. "I tempted you toward things you'd like, because I thought you'd like them. I nudged you toward some things they might not appreciate upstairs," a bit of liquid sloshed over the edge of his glass as he gestured to one of the book stacks, "because I thought you'd _like_ them. Because from the day you 'lost' that flaming sword of yours I knew you didn't think in black and white like eeev-ery other bloody person we know." Crowley was most definitely drunk.

"You know... I came over here, thought, bit of wine, bit of music. Maybe we can just..." he waved the hand holding the glass again, paused the train of thought to sip from it, "skip to the music now?" He was verging on desperate for an out from the conversation, still not sure how he'd wound up in it in the first place.

The sincerity with which Crowley drunkenly spoke was touching- to the point where Aziraphale regretted the conversation entirely. High emotions between them always made him feel uncomfortable for reasons that he likely knew, but had repressed thousands of years ago.

“I do like them,” he said softly, mask cracking but not yet broken. He gestured around to the numerous comforts and objects he enjoyed: the mountains of books, tray of cookies, the bottle of wine, the demon himself. “You know I do”. Aziraphale’s eyes were gentle and without blame; a rolling sea of blue sky, melting with grace and forgiveness. His face was flush with wine, and the pink contrasted against his crown of silvery blond curls.

He assumed he had fallen, and he blamed no one but himself. He tempted, he lusted. He was envious and gluttonous. He played the role of an angel, yes, but a demon just as well. However, what Aziraphale hadn’t realized about himself was that he was virtuous. He was just and prudent. He had faith, kindness, and love. 

He chose Crowley over Heaven. It was the greatest and most important decision of his everlasting life. A decision he would defend for all eternity. And he did it out of love. 

He placed his hands over his face, briefly, gathering the strength and will that was not available while gazing into the serpent’s eyes (which tended to make him weak in the knees). 

“I’m… Oh, Crowley, I’m sorry,” he relented. “You came here to have a lovely evening. The wine was delectable. It was all perfect, and I fear I’ve made a rather mess of it”.

He ran his hands through his hair anxiously. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

Crowley's shoulders slackened when the other's tone finally slid a bit closer to normal. It made him feel less he was going to be smited at any given moment. Still, now Aziraphale's gaze was piercing in an entirely different way, and the demon - in a desperate bid to ignore it - heaved himself up from the seat for another meandering stroll about the room. He wasn't looking for anything this time, just investigating the books as if he planned to borrow one for the first time in a decade. Maybe he would.

Things were simpler for Crowley, because he knew Aziraphale was, above all else, good. If ever he tempted him toward anything at all it was because he knew his soul could handle a bit of tarnishing without toeing the line one had to cross to wind up a victim of eternal damnation. The notion the angel worried about it in the slightest, that he ever had, was a revelation bothered him deeply. He was busy trying to think of how to make it up to him as he wandered.

"S'alright. I thrive on messes," he dismissed the other's apology with a wave of his hand. "But you can make it up to me with anything that's not Queen." Still going on about music. He sounded otherwise unbothered, truly ready to shove the mess under the bed and go back to ignoring it.

“Right,” he chuckled to his companion nervously, “music! Of course. Yes, of course.” He stood up, adjusting his sleeves, collar, and bow tie with clumsy, drunken hands. He walked over to a very old, very antique, very Aziraphale record player. No iTunes or Spotify in this house. Not even so much as a walkman. 

Being a rather anxious angel, Aziraphale hated change. He was, in some ways, stuck in the past. This was evident in a variety of his preferences, from his style of dress to mannerisms, to, of course, his large collection of ancient books. He never felt ready to face the future, and it seemed that just when he was getting on with things, they’d always slip away into something new. He didn’t like cursing. He didn’t like computers. He didn’t like bebop.

He shuffled through some records. There were classics, of course, but that didn’t seem to fit the mood. He wasn’t sure if anything would. He did what any self respecting angel would do when faced with a predicament: left the choice to God.

With his eyes closed tightly, he rummaged around the crate of old records, and pulled one at random. “Oh bugger,” he cursed quietly. He wanted to put it back and try again, and if he’d been any less trusting of The Almighty, he would have. 

With a grimace, like he’d tasted something unpleasant, he placed the record and started the music. It cut through their silence, and although he found the music distasteful, he was hopeful it would make Crowley feel happy.

_…Sometimes I feel so happy, sometimes I feel so sad, sometimes I feel so happy, but mostly you just make me mad, Baby you just make me mad, Linger on, your pale blue eyes.._

He wedged the album cover next to the record player, trying to smooth the displeasure evident on his face. The lyrics weren’t helping. _Velvet Underground_ , he rolled his eyes.

Conversely, Crowley almost always welcomed the future with open arms. It didn't mean he always understood it - or even chose the right parts to enjoy, but he enjoyed them nonetheless. Still, there were parts of history he missed ever so often - most of which he knew he could find by calling on Aziraphale, who'd likely yet to move past them.

Maybe he had, a little bit, because Crowley wasn't sure why else he'd own this particular record. Well - he had a sneaking suspicion. He'd seen the tape in the Bentley once, for starters, and while the demon was fairly sure he recalled telling Aziraphale he wouldn't enjoy it, leave it to an angel not to have implicit faith in him at all times.

"Oh, Hell," he murmured to himself, a quiet hiss of breath as he hung his head for a moment. It was like one big cosmic joke. If he'd known the other had left it up to chance he would've laughed long and loud; God had a better sense of humor than he'd ever have thought.

At least it wasn't Bohemian Rhapsody.

He set his mind to completely ignoring the lyrics while they swam around him and turned back, swaying in time with the music in a manner that fit him too well as he rounded on his seat again. He flopped across it, a mess of limbs with his legs dangling over one armrest, an arm slung over the opposite, lithe form spread horizontally as it could be over the chair. He reached down to put the glass on the floor, and watched with some measure of regret as he failed to set it upright and it began to roll, slowly, away. It was probably for the best. He hoped it was empty.

"You don't like Velvet Underground," he observed loudly. "How long've you had this one tucked away?"

Aziraphale walked over to the glass with an amused smirk, plucking it off the floor. He returned it to Crowley’s hand, looking down on him with an impossibly sweet smile. He enjoyed seeing him get comfortable and was relieved to feel the mood edging away from the tension.

“No, I don’t like it at all. I bought it for you,” he stated simply. There was no fluff, no tension behind those words, no hidden secret, but their meaning hung in the air all the same. 

He melted into his chair with a relaxed sigh. His rosy cheeks seemed to glow in the dim lighting. “I saw it in your car, once,” he reminisced. “And I purchased it shortly thereafter. It is the first time I’ve ever played it, you know. Figured I ought to have something here for you”.

Aziraphale filled their glasses without saying a word about it. Vodka and cranberry, for both of them. Although he had a penchant for sweets, he was in the mood for sour. He reveled in the bittersweet tartness, thoroughly enjoying his first sip. It felt cleansing. 

“I don’t need to like it, so long as you do,” he added cheerfully, the smile in his eyes larger than the smile on his lips. There were many things he didn’t like, things that he tolerated on behalf of his dear friend. If Crowley was pleased with something, Aziraphale was happy to indulge him. Most of the time.

He felt stuffy. The room was beginning to feel very warm, and somehow, very small. He set his glass on the table, running his fingers on the inside of his collar. He gently and methodically began folding up his shirt sleeves, so that they rested neatly on his forearms.

Crowley still felt oddly out of balance. It'd time time and sobriety to find his way back - neither of which he wanted to deal with at present. Thankfully, he was a master of procrastination. 

"Well, if you're collecting things I like now, I've got a whole box you can have... you'll love to hate them." He accepted the drink but didn't taste it straight away. It would've required lifting his head, dribbling on his shirt or both, and he chose neither. "I can't wait for you to hear Depeche Mode," the corner of his mouth upturned at the thought. From this angle his eyes were visible over the dark glasses, pupils wide and black as pitch.

He stared as Aziraphale cuffed his sleeves. If the room was warm, he hadn't noticed it. "You might like some of it, you know, if you did spend some time really listening to it. Grows on you, eventually. Most things will if you give them enough of a chance," he gestured to himself, as if he were a prime example - sloshed a little of the drink onto his jacket when he did. His eyes narrowed into a glare, settled on the glass. Oh well, he thought, and promptly lifted his head to sip from it with a wince. It was an interesting follow-up to the smokiness of his former choice - but it'd do its job just the same.

"You know, you could invest in a sofa. I like those very much," he declared without preamble, changing the subject entirely. "You'd have to move some things. Or," his grin crept back into place, "You could abandon the bookshop for a few hours from time to time and come enjoy the giant one I have sitting at home, just waiting to be used."

It was a pointless segue, but it was more comfortable than continuing to contemplate the array of mixed signals he'd yet to untangle into a coherent narrative. At the very least Aziraphale seemed to be settling back into some brand of normalcy (for now), which made it easier for Crowley to do the same.

“I’m not collecting things you like,” he corrected, slurring his words ever so slightly, as he fussed with his bow tie. “You’re over here often enough that it is my duty- as a host- to make you feel comfortable. I trust you’d do the same for me”. 

He glanced over at the demon, meeting those dangerously golden eyes accidentally as he slipped the tie loose from his collar by pulling down the one side. His posture was relaxed- possibly for the first time ever- and he looked very casual. Aziraphale was getting cozy. His pale skin was flushed down to the collarbone. He was thoroughly, and enjoyably, drunk. 

“Perhaps, sometime, I can… I can come over to yours then,” he offered hesitantly, slightly fixated by Crowley’s eyes. ( _I’d have eaten the apple, too_ , he mused _Eyes like that telling me to do it_ ) “We can listen to Depeche Mode. Sit on the giant couch”. He grinned at him. It was the kind of drunken grin that took over his twinkling eyes and cutely wrinkled his nose.

He’d always kept a sizeable emotional distance regarding these matters, and never spent any considerable time in Crowley’s world. It was rare for Aziraphale to initiate things between them. But Armageddon had come and gone. For this man, he’d walked into the belly of hell to bathe in holy water, in Crowley’s body no less. Crowley had entered Heaven to stand in a pillar of Hellfire. More unpleasantly, he’d had to talk to Gabriel- that alone was worth something. He could, potentially, let down his guard a smidge.

Were it possible for Crowley's gaze to sharpen, it did, ever-so-slightly, as he watched Aziraphale remove his bowtie. He couldn't quite recall the last time he'd seen him without it. Well, no - it'd been relatively recent. But it hadn't really been Aziraphale. It'd been the demon occupying that particular body, temporarily. But he didn't need to know about that - ever, if his reaction to that photograph had been anything to go by.

He was far more comfortable now that Aziraphale actually seemed present behind those blue eyes, so he had no qualms with staring shamelessly at him as he often did. The other man wore relaxation well. He wasn't certain when he'd last seen that, either. He appreciated it, though; so often Aziraphale looked as if he was coiled so tight he'd snap at a moment's notice. While he generally found it endearing, it worried him sometimes, too.

"I wouldn't actually force Depeche Mode on you. But the couch is very nice." The words were almost a purr, and he shifted as if he were imagining spreading out on it presently. It was white leather. Excessive, as were most things Crowley had come to acquire in his time. "I've even got a few books. Some of them you've probably never seen," as if he needed further temptation when he'd already agreed. And then, some of them had been stolen from Aziraphale in the first place.

Aziraphale tried not to look, but couldn’t look away, as his companion sprawled out on the imaginary sofa. _Dear Lord._ He felt a rush of warmth hit his cheeks. The lemon eyes, and the fiery hair, and the lithe frame that seemed to flow like wine. It felt overwhelming. He tried to push it out of mind, citing alcohol as the catalyst, neglecting the fact that he’d been having these sorts of thoughts for six thousand years. 

“Books?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow. His face had an instant gleam of curiosity, and a fervid longing crept into his eyes. The little silvery blonde hairs on his arm stood, though it was mostly due to the purr. On cue, Aziraphale, with his pure and innocent soul, was utterly clueless this subject was brought up as a temptation. And, predictably, it had worked so very well, and so very quickly. 

“What kind of books?” he asked with an obvious tone of interest, head tilting slightly at the inquiry. He’d seen multitudes of books. All the old books, and most of the new books. He’d been looking at books ever since they’d been invented. The thought that there were some mysterious, unseen tomes made him feel giddy with excitement.

Crowley wasn't an idiot. There were certain things you learned to recognize about people - certain tells for different occasions that made them particularly easy to read. It was one of his more impressive talents, most of the time. Considering just how much time he'd spent with Aziraphale throughout the years, he'd venture to guess he knew a majority of his.

Not all of them, he'd learned. But most. The darting gaze that never wandered for more than a split second, the occasionally sharper breath, the minute changes in posture. He drank them in, thrived on them in the absence of more substantial gratification.

Casually, Crowley rolled one shoulder, then the other, slipping his way out of his jacket. He made a show of inspecting the damp spot where he'd spilled a bit of drink - no stain on black, of course - and draped it over the back of the chair to deal with later. His shirt was already unbuttoned down to his collar - a fact he lamented vaguely, in the moment, when he'd already captured the other's attention so wonderfully. He knew he shouldn't be playing this game so soon after that train wreck of a conversation - but when hadn't he? It was the little fun he got. He wasn't going to stop now.

Except he did, settling down into his former position again. "The kind that'd make your skin crawl," his tone didn't change, but darkened slightly, almost more suggestive. "The kind you'd have to read alone and go on pretending you'd never heard of," it sounded like he was referring to pornography. But it wasn't like he didn't know Aziraphale had his own... admittedly slightly strange collection of romantic literature (he'd never wondered at the details, because he'd simply assumed - incorrectly, it seemed, that the angel didn't know any better and thus couldn't be judged for his questionable taste).

But no, Crowley wasn't referring to anything of that nature. What he did have was a very small but interesting collection of tomes that could not be found anywhere else. Some hadn't even been penned with ink. Some hadn't even been penned on paper. They'd make The Nice and Accurate Prophecies look like a children's story in their lighter chapters, and there was a very good reason none of them had ever seen mass production.

"Lot of opinionated heretics, floating around Hell. Lots of witches with grimoires. Loads of interesting stuff."

Aziraphale’s posture became a little less relaxed, as he sat more upright, in an attempt to reign himself in. He inhaled, sharply, and had a slight twitch to his eyebrow. He eyed his companion hungrily, noticing the smooth skin beneath his unbuttoned collar, the slim waist concealed beneath his shirt. He fleetingly imagined running his fingers over Crowley’s ribs- the silken, warm skin and the slight protrusion of bone, glorious and hypnotizing beneath his fingertips.

He attempted to look away, or he at least told himself he did, eyes fluttering first on Crowley’s collarbone, lazily making their way downwards, then, guided by the realization of where he was looking, shot back up to his chest. There, they rested momentarily, until slowly making their way upward to Crowley’s face. His soft lips. His mesmerizing eyes.

There was a gnawing in the pit of his stomach, and he closed his eyes, breathing heavier than he was just a few moments ago. He wrestled with the sense of yearning that’d quickly tumbled into his conscious mind, attempting to quell the power it had over his body.

As his companion settled, and began speaking words that may have well been Aziraphale’s favorite song, he clenched his jaw, and gulped apprehensively. He strained to look at him, at the lust which seemed to cling to every moment. Despite himself, the way Crowley described the books had him on the edge of his seat, unwillingly and unknowingly leaning closer, hanging onto every word.

“Opinionated heretics?” he whispered breathily, as if they were magical words that would conjure up something lovely but terrible. His buttons were pushed, and he found himself incredibly flustered, and it was with great difficulty that he continued to have any semblance of coherency. 

“Do tell more,” he insisted, his heart thumping thunderously. It was a miracle Crowley didn’t hear it. Aziraphale, lovely and pure, doing his best to avoid these sinful thoughts, pushed them to the back of his mind. Little did he know, it was in the back of his mind where they grew best, festering undisturbed.

Crowley's posture, in turn, was positively liquid. Not many could claim to have seen the demon in his serpentine form. Aziraphale was one of the few who could likely see the shadows of that snake in his every movement, from the way he lifted the glass to his lips to take another swig of the drink the angel'd concocted for him (it grew on him with time) to the simple act of setting the glass back on the floor - successfully, this time. He reached up in the same motion to lift the glasses off his nose. He held them as that hand slid to rest across his abdomen, rather near where the path of Aziraphale's gaze had abruptly concluded.

He'd noticed.

"Oh, there are entire religions I bet you've never even heard of. Deeply curious, all of it.. you'd think one or two branches of Satanism would do, but there's an oddly creative way about some of them," - the words dripped dark honey- "Even I'd never heard tell of some of the creatures this lot dreamed up," - he hoped they'd stick in Aziraphale's thoughts (the ones he pretended not to have) long after he'd left for the evening. "Not to mention the rituals."

His pupils almost seemed to flicker in the dim light, as if he couldn't quite decide on their focus. They lingered someplace vaguely between hungry and down right predatory - there was a vast difference, but he toed the line well. Until Aziraphale complained about it - or showed any real sign of discomfort (that didn't include practically begging for more), he had no intention of looking away from him.

It was an odd balance he had to maintain. He was a demon first and foremost; sometimes, by way of his very nature, he had a tendency to push things too far. He'd also had a ludicrous amount of practice pushing Aziraphale's buttons and realizing the difference between genuine discomfort and the occasional crisis of faith, which was why he'd tried (and failed) to salvage the situation earlier. This was something different though. This was between them, and thus, something he could control before the other had the opportunity to do something he'd regret. Crowley wasn't a patient man, but he had nothing but time to spare.

He'd wait until there wouldn't be any regrets. Some coaxing along the way, he reasoned, was entirely acceptable.

"They're not the sort of books any self-respecting angel would want to read," his tone was teasing, though the warning was real enough. Crowley shifted, the quiet slither of some fine material lost to the music ( _I'm set free to find a new illusion..._ ) as he bent one leg at the knee, resting his foot on the armrest.

Aziraphale’s eyes flickered, momentarily, to the hand resting on Crowley’s abdomen, then back up to meet his eyes. It was an automatic process, which he neither noticed nor controlled. They were both equally magnetic, and he absent mindedly bit his lower lip in restrained frustration. He felt a stirring, where a stirring shouldn’t be- couldn’t be- and he forced himself to look away. It took all the effort in his soul to tear his gaze from the dark angel, to look anywhere else. Unfortunately where his gaze wasn’t, his thoughts were. 

He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. He was listening to the enchanting temptations, and subconsciously begging for them. His breath quickened, and by the time he was again unwound enough to tolerate the sight of Crowley’s liquid movements and serpentine eyes, he wasn’t breathing at all. 

Aziraphale had forgotten about his drink and, well, everything else. Vinegar wouldn’t work on his soul, but honey surely did. Crowley had honey to offer, and plenty of it. Desires wove themselves around his thoughts, constricting his ability to think at all. He was positively enamored, entranced, by the darkness spilling out of Crowley’s lips, and Crowley himself. 

He almost fantasized about what sort of rituals there could possibly be, but his thoughts snagged on the obvious visceral ritual that he very much wanted to enjoy, right here, right now. Again, he buried the sentiment with the other immodest, insatiable seeds he’d unwillingly planted, and deep within the recesses of his mind, they began to bloom corruption.

“Do you think I could read them?” he asked, still teetering on the chair ledge, lustful breathiness saturating his words. His cheeks were flushed, as if with pleasure. His eyes were full of want, but his face displayed the internal conflict. A twitch of the brow, clench of the jaw, tremble of the lip.

Crowley's eyes were still there waiting when Aziraphale's line of sight corrected itself, knowing, but not accusatory. When the angel bit his lip, all the breath rushed out of him, a sharp huff through his nose that distinctly resembled a hiss. He didn't have to share the same worries as the other with regard to his own sinful thoughts, and they'd run wild the instant he'd mentioned the sofa, of all things. He imagined creeping over him, the warmth of skin-on-skin and the scent of Aziraphale all around him, beneath him, all the little sounds he'd make....

When Aziraphale closed his eyes, Crowley wet his lips. By the time he'd opened them again, the demon was sitting upright in the chair, halfway to pushing himself to stand. He rose and stalked around the small table, narrowly avoiding bumping into it in his abrupt need to close the distance between them. His glasses clattered onto it as he passed. Then he was there, standing in front of him, looking down as if it'd only just occurred to him that he didn't have a pleasantly outlined plan for this course of action.

When Crowley wanted, he usually took.

He extended a hand, curling two fingers to nudge their way beneath Aziraphale’s chin and guided his face upward. A number of seconds seemed to stretch into eternity as the demon stared. He was so close. Aziraphale knew, exactly as well as Crowley did, what that felt like. He wanted to brush a thumb across his lower lip. He wanted to crook his fingers inward and let his nails trace a slow path down his neck. He wanted to crawl onto the chair with him and show him everything he'd really been missing when he'd settled for his book club so long ago. He wanted to taste him. He wanted a lot of things, all of which flashed in his mind as he gazed down at the angel.

Tonight, he'd take none of them.

A long thumb traced Aziraphale's jaw line, surprisingly gentle, as if trying to smooth away the held tension he could see there - soothing in spite of the vulgar thoughts he'd spiraled so readily into. "You could," he weighed, head canting in a half-nod. "If you really wanted to. But once you've read them, you've read them. You can't un-read them." He really was talking about books. The disclaimer just conveniently applied to certain ... other things, as well. Both, he figured, were worthy of consideration.

He couldn't help but linger a moment longer before, through the dull fog of Aziraphale, it occurred to Crowley that he perhaps ought to guide them out of this particular pitfall. His hand fell, and he gave Aziraphale's shoulder a faint squeeze - equal parts possessive and, somehow, vaguely apologetic.

Crowley turned to move back as abruptly as he'd crossed the room in the first place, damning his self control all the while.

He watched with confusion as the demon sauntered his way over. He seized the opportunity and drank in every inch of his body, immortalizing the liquidity of his movements by committing them to memory. A memory that, in the dark of night, would linger, would whisper, would take Aziraphale’s imagination by force, and without mercy. He was grateful for the chair supporting him, because his knees wouldn’t have. 

Aziraphale took the smallest breath- a quick gasp really- as Crowley’s fingers brushed against his skin. The warmth spread across his body so quickly- It was so sudden, so unexpected, so right. He lifted his head to meet the demon’s gaze. The shimmer in his eyes betrayed every thought and desire he’d ever felt, and wanted to feel, and denied, for six thousand years. 

A slight, quiet whimper escaped his lips, as Crowley traced along his jaw line. Aziraphale was mesmerized, frozen, staring up helplessly. His heart tantrumed against the walls of his chest. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He forgot that he inhabited a body at all. He wasn’t even breathing. 

By the time the dark angel spoke, he’d nearly forgotten about not only their conversation, just moments before, but about books in general. About everything. Everything except being here, being in this moment, being together. He envisioned smooth silk sheets, felt the heat between them, longed for the passion and pleasure and release.

When Crowley released his spell, Aziraphale exhaled shakily, his breathing rapid and shallow. He watched the demon with a perplexed stare, trembling faintly with a mixture of excitement, confusion, and fear. He felt as if Crowley demonstrated a new power, a whispering influence. It was a dark command that said I could have you, Angel, whenever I wanted, as if any free will at all was given as a mercy, and it terrified him.

Crowley'd crossed something of a threshold, he knew. It wasn't as if he felt he had any particular hold on Aziraphale (though the notion was frighteningly appealing to him), because he knew (even if the angel didn't) that the other might as well have had a leash around his neck in turn (he'd decide whether or not that was appealing to him later).

( _And if you close the door, the night could last forever_ )

The look on his face was seared into Crowley's memory. It was an image he wanted to preserve, and as he trailed by the table, the wine bottle filled up one last time. He paused to cork it, every movement slow and deliberate, as if he were taking the time to mull over and catalogue everything that'd just transpired. By the time he lifted his sunglasses and set them back in their rightful place, the demon was sober. Almost sober. He didn't think he could handle drying out completely just then.

( _Leave the sunshine out and say hello to never_ )

"You can visit me any time, you know." He glanced back to Aziraphale. As cognizant thought slowly washed over him, so broke the waves of emotion he'd so carefully compartmentalized away, bit by bit, throughout the evening. The only hint of it that showed on his face was a gleaming, almost devious smile - which was a sharp contrast to the dark tendrils of uncertainty weaving their way through his thoughts.

( _All the people are dancing and they're having such fun_ )

The fucking Velvet Underground. Crowley didn't know whether it was God or the Devil himself that put that record in Aziraphale's hands, but he no longer appreciated the humor in it. Brilliant as it was. He moved to retrieve his coat - dried the damp spot with a quick brush of his fingers - and slung it over his shoulders.

( _I wish it could happen to me_ )

He was almost afraid to take a good look at him. Part of him was equally terrified - as he always was in these moments (like there hadn't been moments in the past - albeit maybe none quite so close) - that maybe he'd pushed too hard, or too quickly, or even... even pushed at all, when he shouldn't have. Especially. Especially, you idiot, he thought to himself, after they'd had such a revealing conversation just prior.

( _'Cause if you close the door, I'd never have to see the day again_ )

Crowley seemed somewhat paler than usual when he finally turned to face him again, though he didn't sit back down. It was time to go, he thought, and leave Aziraphale to some peace before the night was through.

( _I'd never have to see the day again_ )

The record spun to static as the album ended, just in time for Crowley's words to transition them into silence.

"I don't plan on sleeping through any more centuries, for the record."

Aziraphale could hardly process the moment they’d shared. He felt as if electricity was coursing throughout his entire body, and buzzing angrily in his mind. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but this time, he’d have no choice. There were other times, sure. Crowley had asked him to run away together, and not just once. But there were rules then. Rules that were gone now.

Following Crowley’s lead, he extracted the alcohol from his system. Most of it, anyway. He couldn’t face this moment without using it as a crutch, terrible as it may seem. He left just enough to feel the warmth and buzz and courage that alcohol so readily provided. 

He smiled. It was sweet and pure, loving and forgiving. It was the sort of smile that one expected to see on angels, though rarely did. Aziraphale’s eyes were a Heaven of their own: bright, and blue, and innocent. He looked, after everything that transpired, happy. And he was, deep down. He’d just need time to piece it all together. 

He stood from his chair, prepared to see Crowley out, the silence pressing against him uncomfortably. He still felt a glimmer of fear. Of powerlessness. He walked over to him, trying to maintain the usual distance, though ended up just slightly further away. 

“Things are different now,” he remarked, still breathing shakily. “I suppose I’d wake you up this time around. Wouldn’t be able to forgive myself for missing another..” (...century with you, was what he meant to say, but couldn’t finish, the words tangling themselves somewhere in the pit of his stomach.) The missing words hung in the air, unspoken but not unknown. 

“Right,” he cleared his throat. “I- well, I suppose I could, you know, drop by, in a few days. If you’re free”. He felt a combination of eagerness and trepidation, and desperately needed to be alone. He needed to think, to put these emotions in their proper drawers, to compose himself. To burn that… that fucking picture.

"Oh, I'll be free," Crowley had to laugh at the notion that he wouldn't be. What else did he have to do, when he wasn't here? It'd been driving him mad, if he were honest. As much as he'd always complained about his work and actually having to do things, he'd always taken a certain sort of pride in it when he did manage to pull something ridiculous off - even if none of the other fallen saw the brilliance of it. There was none of that to look forward to, now.

Crowley, in fact, had rarely found himself out of the flat, where he usually spent very little time. He was restless; it was likely a contributing factor to his stormier-than-usual mood. But as he'd mentioned earlier, in passing, he knew the brief reprieve they had from their respective head offices wasn't going to last forever. His (former?) boss in particular was likely to find a number of new and creative ways to torment him, and as afraid as his fellow demons were to pursue him now, he was fairly certain Satan was still the more persuasive one between them.

It was a conversation for another day. That brilliant smile of Aziraphale's had a way of easing his nerves, and tension Crowley hadn't been aware of left his shoulders on a slow breath. At least he looked alright, he thought. That was one small comfort, even if the distance between them was somewhat wider than usual. 

"Don't wait too long," he drawled, sounding more like himself with every passing moment as he started for the front of the small shop. "It's dreadfully boring, these days."

"I didn't want to assume," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. He was a greedy, envious angel. Jealous, even. He felt oddly possessive of the demon. And he was happy to know that Crowley was just as lost without him, as he was without Crowley. He didn't have anything planned for the next few days either, and they would likely be terribly boring. But, apart from time to process The Moment (as he'd taken to calling it in his thoughts) he read in a book once- okay, magazine-about something called 'playing hard to get'. 

He didn't really understand what that was supposed to do in the long term, but he read it would make someone miss you. And, he admitted to himself, he did want to be missed. 

"Do be careful on your way home. And call if you need anything, if there's any trouble." He couldn't help but worry about Crowley's safety, even if things were quiet. 

"Keep in touch if you hear anything from, you know," he added with a vague downward gesture.

When they reached the door, he tried to ignore the gnawing in his chest. He needed to be alone, and yet... he didn't want Crowley to go. His eyes glittered with want, still intense, still all consuming. "Good night," he whispered gently.

Crowley liked that twinkle, though he scowled in response to it. He'd been an expert at hard-to-get for ages (an entire century!). It was one of his favorite games, until it wasn't. He was truly lost without Aziraphale. In all his ages of existence there'd always been some goal, some greater... not good, but plan he'd been working toward. And now it was finished. He had his freedom (supposedly), which was a wonderful thing on its own - but despite the grey area he'd existed in for most of his life, he found it almost too much. Aziraphale, he'd readily admit, was his only anchor. He was fine with that - just not the crippling _boredom_.

"If there's trouble, right. You do the same," it may have been his greatest fear that they wouldn't target him at all. Everyone knew they'd worked together, at this point. Hell worked in cruel ways - but he didn't feel the need to mention it. He'd just continue to inch by the bookshop in the dead of night from time to time (all the time), keeping an eye as discreetly as he could manage. Thankfully, while he wasn't the best lurker, it was almost an innate skill for the fallen.

Crowley watched him for a moment, then canted his head, thoughtful. Then he closed the distance between them to sling an arm loosely about Aziraphale's shoulders in a lazy half-embrace, the last dregs of alcohol fueling him that small bit more. When he pulled away, it was with a broad grin that seemed more earnest than the last.

"I'll be waiting," he called over his shoulder as he stepped from the shop. A nearby potted plant on the walk seemed to wilt a bit in its container as Crowley expelled the rest of the alcohol from his system on the way to the Bentley. He dropped heavily into the driver's seat, remembered to dispatch the tire-locks.

Then he fished into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a familiar, sepia-toned photograph. He spent a while scowling at it before the engine roared to life. There was a quick flash of light from within the vehicle, and the photo, freshly aflame, fluttered silently out the window. It landed in the road just outside the shop, and in record time had diminished to ash in a way only hellfire could manage, leaving a smoking spot on the asphalt in the car's wake as he sped into the night.

Aziraphale closed the door behind him, resting upon it with a sigh. His heart was pounding, aching. Other things were aching, too. Hypnotized by his thoughts, and forgetting to lock the door, he went to the kitchen for a desperately needed cup of tea. The lights were out, but he didn’t need them. He knew every inch of his bookshop, and could navigate through the piles and shelves even in the darkness. 

His hands trembled as he filled his kettle and placed it upon the stove. The alcohol swirled his brain, but, considering the circumstances, it was just the right amount of swirling. 

His thoughts consumed him. Crowley consumed him. Feelings whispered, both threats and sweet nothings, causing his stomach to twist into knots. Aziraphale rested his hand on his jaw line- reliving Crowley’s touch. It was sweeter than he’d expected, and far more gentle than he ever could’ve imagined. He wondered what it would feel like to unbutton his shirt, trace his fingertips down…

When he snapped out of his fantasies- he realized the kettle had been whistling for some time, and, peeking inside, that the water had all but boiled away. 

He shook his head, grumbling to himself, and tried again.

While the kettle was on for the second time, he left it momentarily and turned on the tap to fill his bathtub, liberally adding scented oils and bubble soap. He didn’t turn the lights on, but he did light a single candle. After taking a moment to first delight in its scent- vanilla cupcake- he placed it on the sink which sat across from the tub.

Aziraphale fetched his tea and placed his winged mug on the edge of the tub. He slipped out of his vest, unbuttoned his shirt. Digging in his pockets, he searched for the photograph, wanting to burn it before he got too relaxed. 

After rummaging through his pockets- all of them, twice- panic set in. He lost the picture, again. He snapped his fingers impatiently, willing it back to himself, but it didn’t appear. He groaned and rubbed his temples with both hands, tears filling his eyes. Clearly, his mind was too occupied (by books and demons and sins… and sins with demons… and reading sinful demonic books sinfully) to do anything appropriately. 

After he finished undressing, he slipped into the warm, bubbling bath. The water soothed the tension in his muscles, which had been rigid for… well, forever. He let out a sigh of relief and relaxation, dabbed the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief, and sipped his tea.


	2. Sacrificial Remains

Aziraphale stood in front of a full length mirror, fumbling with his collar.

“Do you think it’s alright?” he inquired anxiously, turning to see his backside.

“I think it looks _marvelous_ Mr. Fell,” nodded a cheery salesman, “It was just pressed this morning.” He then adds, “She’s one lucky lady!”

Aziraphale chuckled nervously, wordlessly nodding, and paid for his new suit. It looked suspiciously similar to his old suit, with only minor changes, such as a newer, darker vest. He’d swapped his usual light blue button up for a crisp white one, and his bowtie was approximately 1.5 shades darker than the last.

Resistant to modernity, Aziraphale felt uneasy, but in reality the changes were relatively minor.

He grabbed his bag- which contained a bottle of the driest, reddest wine he could find, and two scrumptious looking tea cakes- and hailed a taxi. It wasn’t a long trip, but he’d been able to cram in quite a number of worried thoughts during the ride.  
He approached Crowley’s door nervously, taking a few deep breaths before ringing the buzzer.

Crowley'd spent the last few days in an absolutely wretched state. After his last encounter with Aziraphale, for the first time in a long time, he'd found himself thoroughly confused.

Some things were obvious. What'd transpired between them (and should've been for years, as far as Crowley was concerned) was clear in its meaning - it was the conversation that preceded it that worried him. He knew Aziraphale would make his own choices. He also knew that if - Heaven forbid - the angel fell out of favor upstairs, Hell would chew him up - and probably never spit him out again.  
He'd never once been worried about Aziraphale falling in all their time together. Never once, until he'd heard the other lay it out the way he had that night.

_Everything I do with you is a sin._

He'd known that, but he'd never really considered how high the tally must've been. The Fallen - himself included - were all so far removed from Aziraphale's light, Crowley simply couldn't imagine a world where the angel was anything but... well, an Angel. Nature had to count more than sin, didn't it? They'd practically saved the world! But was that even what God wanted?

And then, despite the revelation, Crowley'd had to go and tempt him again! Had had to go and entice him with talk of heretical books and... and a number of other things. Aziraphale's face, the pink hue of his cheeks, the slightly furrowed brow and that little noise he'd made when he touched him floated through his mind. Absently, Crowley's hand began to a trail path down his abdomen.

How could he resist tempting Aziraphale when he couldn't handle the barest temptation himself?

The buzzer sounded, and Crowley shot upright, eyes wide. He crept suspiciously to the door, narrowing one of them as he pressed it to the peep-hole - and then he heaved a sigh. "Oh," It was relief, not disappointment. "Not a moment," he called once he'd taken a few brisk strides back into the living room. He knocked a wine bottle along the way and cringed at the sound that echoed in the barren space when it clattered into another. His gaze lingered on the glasses littering the coffee table - and then trailed slowly over the few gallons of holy water he'd stored about the room. They were only a precaution, but still... he didn't want Aziraphale to think he was getting ideas.

"Right," he muttered; and he went to work.

It'd only be about two minutes before the door swung open. The flat was pristine, as always, and Tchaikovsky drifted quietly over Crowley's shoulder from the speakerless stereo in the living room.

"Angel," he greeted, voice all warmth and bearing none of the past week's anxieties. Crowley wasn't wearing his glasses; he didn't usually, in the flat. No jacket either, but the usual dark button-down (with a few less buttoned) and black, criminally well-fitted jeans.  
Though the aesthetic in the apartment was still minimalist, it'd be immediately apparent that Crowley had changed things since Aziraphale's stay. His decor was back, for one - the... artistic statue and the original Mona Lisa sketch, displayed proudly in the living room. The small bookshelf had returned to the corner of the living room - dwarfed by Aziraphale's collection, but still fairly populated - although most of the spines weren't labeled.

The plants seemed to stand a little taller in his presence, and in the midst of it all was the large, familiar sculpture from a certain church. Still, for the most part, the flat was the flat. Crowley took a step back and waved Aziraphale inside.

"Come on, before I change my mind."

Aziraphale scuttled inside, wholeheartedly believing that Crowley would change his mind any moment now. He smiled, the usual angelic smile, practically radiating light and God’s love. “Hello, Crowley,” he said, with a fleeting hint of musical intonation, delighted to be here. “It’s nice to see you. You look well.”

His eyes briefly lingered on the unbuttoned collar, but he looked away quickly. He didn’t have anywhere to look, it seemed. Gorgeous tempting eyes, partially undone shirt, those shameless jeans. _Good Lord._

He handed him the bag containing cakes and wine, wordlessly, with just a little bit of a nose scrunching grin.

Once inside, he surveyed the apartment. It seemed different than the last time. There was… more. Not that much more, but more all the same.

It seemed to be the opposite of his cozy, cluttered home. Though, he imagined, they were both rebelling in the same manner. Aziraphale was escaping the barren expanse of Heaven. He assumed that Hell must be cluttered like the bookshop. That was a worry he tucked away for a later time.

His lips curled into a tight line at the sight of the statue, an innocent, almost virginal, reaction to seeing something erotic unexpectedly. The demon was on top, he noted, filing that fact away with all the other accumulations over the years. It made him wonder if he ought to be here in the first place. He blinked a second longer than usual, shaking his head slightly, gaze singling on the Mona Lisa sketch. He nodded approvingly.

Then, he saw them. The books. He immediately walked over to them, drawn to them helplessly, turning his head to look at Crowley with pleading eyes. He pointed, childlike wonder spreading across his face. “Are these…?”

"You look..." Crowley trailed off as the bag was offered his way, accepting it and nudging the door shut behind them. The deadbolt clunked into place of its own accord. "Different," he observed, finally, and trailed the other into the living room.

He observed as Aziraphale took note of his belongings - Crowley really didn't have many, and those he did were aimed more at making this particular human role he'd been playing for so long all the more believable. There were some things he coveted in earnest. Certain fineries he couldn't help but acquire when he had the chance, though it was rare something moved him so much he displayed it in the flat. He enjoyed art; eternity had just given him an eye that was - perhaps overly - hard to please.

The sight of Aziraphale pleased him. Crowley stalked up behind the angel, took a half-step around to intercept him before he reached the bookshelf, so that he might get a better look.

"I like it," he complimented, simply. The changes were subtle but he'd noted them straight away. He managed, he thought, for the most part, to avoid looking downright lecherous as he took in the sight of him - but a shade of it still shone behind his eyes as he broke into a grin. Crowley always tended to encourage Aziraphale when he changed up his wardrobe - at least he tried to. Sometimes the combinations he came up with should've been sins unto themselves. This time he had no complaints.

"Oh. Yeah," he gestured to the shelf behind him and sidestepped out of the way. "Knock yourself out, but don't say I didn't warn you." He was making his way back to the sofa as he spoke, dropping onto the edge so he could rifle through the bag Azirphale'd brought with him. He wasn't used to entertaining, but he laid the cakes out on the table and summoned two fine crystal glasses for them all the same, stealing glances toward the Aziraphale all the while.

“Thank you,” he smiled, though it was not clear if he was grateful for the compliment or for the opportunity to look at the books.  
Aziraphale didn’t wait a moment longer. From his pocket, he pulled out a pair of leather gloves, and gently nudged them onto his delicate hands. He always used gloves when handling ancient, or otherwise rare, books.

He, being the faithful angel that he was, closed his eyes to pick a book at random. God’s choice was always guilt free. The tome was dark green, heavy. It had no label whatsoever on the cover or the spine, and the first page was written in something that suspiciously looked like blood. He all but squealed with delight, and had those breathy gasps of wonder when paging through it casually.

He didn’t want to bring the book back to his shop, heeding Crowley’s warnings, and presently was afraid of all manners of imagined terrors. Shadows creeping, demons flying out of the pages, spontaneous combustion into hellfire, opening a portal to the underworld. He didn’t pretend to know what witches and demons got up to, and certainly not in their literature inked in blood.

He gingerly carried the book over to the sofa, laying it on the table carefully in order to avoid the general vicinity of cakes and wine. He placed his reading glasses and leather gloves next to it, hoping to find time to look it over more thoroughly.

He sat on the couch. The giant white couch. He’d been on it a million times already in the past few days- all dreams, of course. A slight blush bloomed on his cheeks. Subtle, but it was there. He could feel it.

He looked at his host expectantly, eyes glittering with Heavenly cheer. “Nice couch,” he said playfully, patting his hands on both sides.

"Isn't it?" Crowley murmured, a little too proudly as he settled back into the pristine leather cushions. An arm draped over the seat back in Aziraphale's direction, though there was enough distance between them it actually seemed a relatively innocent gesture. He waved a hand idly in the direction of the table, where a rather luxurious charcuterie spread willed itself into existence. And on second thought, when he noted Aziraphale's gloves, a small container of toothpicks.

"Ah. That's an interesting one," he mused of the book Azirphale'd selected. "A chronicle of the children of Lilith," there was some drama to his tone, and his eyes glinted with a spark of genuine enthusiasm. "Lovely woman. You'd probably like her. Shame, all she had to go through for a shred of respect," he gave no insight whatsoever into how, or where, he'd acquired the tome. All the better that Aziraphale didn't know.

"Go on, take your time. I know I won't have your attention until you've pored through at least one of them," he plucked a raspberry from the board and shifted to recline back on the sofa, feet dangerously close to propping themselves in Aziraphale's lap. They fell just short.

"Just don't read any of it aloud. Wouldn't want to end up playing host to half of Hell."

The warning terrified Aziraphale and he promised, "I won't utter a single word, I swear."

Whether or not Crowley was joking, the thought hadn't crossed his mind- demons terrified him. Not Crowley, of course... the _real_ ones did.

He looked on the food and smiled to himself sweetly. Crowley did it for him, he knew, and nothing made him happier than the little acts of service with which he was so often pampered.

He tugged on the leather gloves and happily began reading, every so often popping over to the spread with eager eyes.

He was about halfway through the book when he thought he heard something. He put it out of mind, until he heard it again. His thoughts- filled with monsters and dead children and skeletons and other equally terrifying, equally unholy things- ran mad.  
He found himself scooting closer and closer to Crowley, until they were touching. Closer, Crowley's feet upon his lap. Closer, his legs draped over his own.

His cheeks would be flushed... if he wasn't preoccupied with the invisible devils, that, he swore, were patiently waiting to drag him down to Hell.

Crowley hadn't been joking.

Crowley was also a very real demon, which was why he had such an interesting collection of literature in the first place. But it was fine with him if Aziraphale forgot that.

Still, vaguely worried that the other might stumble upon something he couldn't quite wrap his angelic mind around, Crowley fought so hard to stay awake as Aziraphale read. He'd comment here and there when he knew he'd reached a particularly interesting bit, but as time past the words became murmurs, then mumbles, and eventually he stopped interjecting at all.

The demon looked strangely peaceful when he slept. It was a rare sight, to see Crowley without constant tension in his features - even the little ridge between his brows smoothed serenely as his breathing slowed.

He was asleep when Aziraphale first moved, and stayed asleep even when his feet settled into the other's lap. The demon's body was unusually cold. Not so much corpselike, just... not quite as warm as he should've been. Strange, but not altogether unpleasant.

Aziraphale moved again and a low sound of protest grumbled its way from Crowley's mouth. He shifted, eyes never slitting open, until his knees were bent across the other's thighs, tucking close in a manner that suggested he might wind himself around him were their positions slightly different.

He quieted again, and stilled.

Aziraphale looked around anxiously. He was so close, so tempted to run his hands through Crowley's hair. To nuzzle closer, wrap him in his arms, breathe in his scent. Instead, noticing how unbelievably cold his skin felt, (and quite worried that something was terribly wrong) he miracled a blanket, not into existence, but from home.

It was the softest, warmest blanket he owned, all fuzzy and soothing and crisp white. He draped it over Crowley, trying not to stir him too much. He contemplated kissing his forehead, gently, quickly, but decided that it would be best not to.

Gazing over him, he could see the serpent from The Garden, and he marveled at the ineffability of it all. God, he was convinced, had brought them together. It was everyone else who tried to tear them apart.

He let the miracle and feelings of Divinity and God's love flow through him, healing his spirit, as he closed his eyes and prayed. It had been so long- too long- but his faith remained unshaken, even after everything. He prayed for the Great War to end, for their safety, for God's blessing, for Crowley's immortal soul. He could see the irony of praying as he curled up with a demon, but Crowley wasn't _really_ a demon, was he? He was an angel, once. There had to be goodness and salvation deep down.

When his spirit was still, and nerves quieted, he resumed his reading, taking care to move as little as possible. He was less scared, and more comfortable than anything else. He found himself feeling very warm, being underneath both Crowley and the blanket. But, he accepted a little bit of suffering for his companion's comfort.

For the first time in a long time, Crowley was truly at peace. Sure, it took passing out draped over an angel to get him there, but he wasn't going to complain.

If eternity had taught him anything, it was that God and the Devil were one in the same. He never prayed to either. Not for himself, not for anyone else. It was a tremendous waste of time, in his view, because it'd been clear to him for ages that neither of them were anything more than power hungry sadists without any _real_ plan. They toyed with people when they got bored. Sometimes they got bored of people in general. He'd witnessed the flood firsthand, had taken credit for so many atrocities that he never would've had the heart to fathom -

but it was all in someone's hands.

Crowley'd decided a long time ago that he'd take his life into his own. Aziraphale had too, he thought - to a degree. Part of him admired the other's continual devotion to that higher power despite having lived through the same things Crowley had. Most of the same things, at least. Aziraphale hadn't lived through Hell. He'd visited, certainly, but the tour was different than the experience, and Crowley'd had to spend too much time there to forgive anyone who had a hand in its existence.

It was all rather hopeless, without Aziraphale. If the demon ever prayed to anyone, it'd probably be him.

Crowley shifted, curling onto his side and snaking further down the sofa; his knees were tucked up to Aziraphale's side now, Crowley's midsection having taken their place across his lap. A bit of warmth had returned to his form, and slowly, those piercing yellow eyes began to blink open - not so piercing shrouded in the haze of sleep.

"Mh. Done yet?" He didn't seem shocked by the position, nor did he make any effort to move.

Aziraphale was in his own version of Heaven. A better version. There was food spread across the table, and cakes, and wine. A large, unique book in his hands. A dark, beautiful angel in his lap. Crowley’s apartment was serene- no bustle of Soho, no one to knock at the door. Just them. Just what he wanted.

He was lavish with attention, hardly able to look away. Thoroughly distracted by the fiery hair, the soft (daresay angelic) face, the quiet music of his breath, he’d yet to finish another page of the book. Crowley had never really been this close before. Or, perhaps he had been, but Aziraphale was closer still to the Silver City. No longer. Aziraphale had come to terms that, even without the graces of Heaven, he could still have the graces of God. He didn’t need Heaven anymore. He didn’t need anyone, anything. Just this.

When his companion began to stir, he quickly pretended to be buried in the book. Perhaps it was partly out of fear, unwilling to admit he’d been staring for the better part of an hour by now, or perhaps out of shame, unwilling to admit the enjoyment was far greater than any book could provide. His heart skipped and he blushed, which made things more complicated for himself. It was one thing to silently enjoy Crowley… another entirely for Crowley to know about it.

“Yes, lo—“ …ve… he caught his breath, cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes. Uh, Loved it. Jolly good book. Interesting bits about the…uh” he racked his brain to think of anything at all that he’d read. “…the burning children?” He winced. This was going to be more difficult than he realized. The more mistakes he made, the more flustered he became, paving the way for permanent embarrassment.

He looked down at Crowley, enamored. Every inch of Aziraphale’s sweet face beamed with love. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes glittered like stars, and he had a faint flush on his cheeks that was just the right color.

Crowley squinted at the angel above him, face half-hidden by the soft fuzz of a blanket he was sure he didn't own. He tucked into it, still staring. Suspiciously. "You've not even been reading, have you." It was a statement more than it was a question. Oddly enough, it wasn't accusatory. Or teasing. "You know you can't bring it with you," he groaned then, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. He'd hoped Aziraphale would just get on it with so he could go back to being the center of attent-

Oh. If Aziraphale wasn't reading, what had he been doing?

His gaze snapped back into focus, and Crowley immediately eased into a languid stretch, still making no effort at all to remove himself from the other's lap. Aziraphale didn't seem to mind, and the demon certainly had no complaints. He supposed it was a good thing he hadn't finished, the more he came to his senses. The longer it took him to work his way through the small library, the longer he had an excuse to be there.

"You know," Crowley murmured, voice still weighted with sleep, "Eventually, you're going to learn it's not worth your time, trying to lie to me."

Aziraphale averted his gaze, mostly because he was at least 3 shades pinker. Crowley always knew when he was lying. He figured it was some sort of demonic talent, completely missing the fact that he was the worst liar in all of Creation.

“I have been reading! I wasn’t lying,” he persisted, making the most adorable face of frustration. His lips had the slightest pout. “Not really…”

He sulked. “Oh, alright. If you must know… I… well, I got scared. I heard a noise! And then _I heard it again!_ ” he emphasized the noise bit.

Crowley must understand how terrible and creepy it was, because how else could he explain their position? He sank a little bit further into the couch, making no attempts to break up their cuddle or draw any attention to it. He hoped it would last, even if just a short while longer.

Crowley's eyes narrowed abruptly, and he pushed himself upright on his elbows. He was all but sitting on him now. "What sort of noise?" he demanded, suddenly rather more serious. The last traces of sleep had fled him abruptly, and his gaze darted quickly around the room, lingering a moment on the large television that took up most of the far wall. The serpent inked beside his ear twitched as he sniffed the air.

"Where'd it come from?" the music, which had continued quietly all the while, came to an immediate stop. Crowley's tone sent a faint shiver through the plants in the room. The flat had double glazing. If there'd been a _noise_ , there was a problem.

Aziraphale, who was creeped out before, was alarmed now, teetering on the edge of terrified. The color drained from his face instantly. Crowley’s reaction was entirely unexpected.

“It was… at least an hour ago by now,” he admitted. Though, due to his companions immediate reaction, he thought maybe he’d made a mistake by waiting to mention it. He absentmindedly gripped Crowley’s arm, briefly shivering like the houseplants.

“First it was _there_ ,” he said, vaguely pointing outside of the window. “And then, it was _there_ ,” pointing, equally vaguely, by the door.

Crowley's lip curled into an immediate snarl. He set a hand flat to Aziraphale's chest, pressing him firmly back into the sofa. "Stay here," he muttered lowly, and rose, easily un-knotting his own tangle of limbs as he got to his feet.

It probably would've done him to move when the whole business was done - at least try to make himself a bit less obvious. Hell had always found its way to him, though, despite his best efforts; he wasn't sure it would've been worth the trouble. Besides, he was comfortable here.

Crowley moved silently across the room. The window wasn't a problem - could've been a bird. Birds flew into his window all the time. A demon living on earth probably caused some sort of disturbance in the magnetic field or something - he'd gotten used to it after a while, had never bothered to question it. The door was what concerned him. He crept toward it, form tense as if at any moment he expected someone (something?) to burst through. Eventually, he was close enough to look out. A hand lingered over the handle, but didn't touch as he gazed into the (seemingly) empty hallway.

"Nothing," he muttered, though he stayed there, unmoving and tightly wound, for a solid five minutes. Eventually he straightened, and strode purposefully back - only to bypass the sofa entirely. He was going to investigate each room, make sure nothing was out of place, no wayward electronics had turned on of their own accord.

Aziraphale was surprised to be pushed into the couch, and had dreamt of it, but it didn’t feel quite like he expected. Crowley’s snarl scared him- in a way- it wasn’t the sort of sound that he’d often heard. Perhaps, he worried, Crowley was a demon-demon after all. He didn’t like the thought, and so he pushed it away for now.

Aziraphale watched fearfully as Crowley checked out the aforementioned areas. He felt guilty, like the noise was somehow his fault, and part of him blamed the book. Not the book itself really, but his reading of it. He felt as if he’d invited un-holiness. He huddled in the snow-colored blanket, and, despite the circumstances, was pleased to find that it had retained Crowley’s scent.

He reached out for Crowley’s arm as he strode past, but came up a few inches short. Disappointment wavered in his eyes.  
Aziraphale was well past terrified at this point. He wasn’t sure if he should actually stay put. He didn’t want to leave Crowley alone- and, he didn’t want to be alone- but he also didn’t want to be in the way.

He contemplated blessing something, or perhaps creating holy water, but was afraid of accidentally hurting _his_ demon. He sat quietly, and waited, listening for any indication of trouble.

The only sound that followed was more silence as Crowley investigated every corner of the flat. Nothing - and more nothing. Maybe Aziraphale had simply scared himself. Crowley'd be relieved if that were the case, but he wasn't going to take any chances. Alone in the bedroom, the demon inhaled deeply and released the breath on a measured exhale. Calm, he willed himself. _Calm_.

It didn't work.

Eventually Crowley made his way back into the room, stone-faced. "It was nothing," he assured him, the expression immediately softening when they settled on Aziraphale, clearly terrified, sitting on his couch clutching the blanket for dear life. "Probably the little old lady downstairs chasing one of the cats."

He dropped back onto the sofa, and without a moment's hesitation, had his legs crossed over the angel's lap again. He was trying to downplay his own overreaction as much as he was trying to assure him, without saying so, that Aziraphale hadn't done anything wrong. There was a small part of him too that remained suspicious, and wanted him close, and this was the closest they'd been without it spiraling into an awkward mess of heated emotion. So far.

Aziraphale was shaken and still a bit alarmed, but Crowley’s presence had an immediate and noticeable effect on his nerves. He felt safe, and warm… and, loved.

He momentarily removed Crowley’s legs from his lap, and moved up, moved closer. He laid his head on the demon’s chest. His heart was pounding anxiously. He knew he ought to feel something about being here, being so close, but all he could focus on was the comfort and security that it brought.

After a while, his face buried in Crowley’s chest, he started to relax. The tension in his muscles eased. He enjoyed the sensual experience of being here. He enjoyed the scent of cologne. The warm, loving comfort of his presence. The rise and fall of his breath. The beating of his heart.

“Thank you,” he whispered, “for checking. I’m sorry for not telling you when it happened. I’m glad it was nothing, though, even if it does mean that I’m quite foolish”.

Crowley shifted easily to accommodate the other's movement. It was unexpected - but only slightly, and for once, he didn't seem surprised by the sudden display of affection. Fear had a way of dispelling embarrassment.

"You're a bit foolish," he agreed, fondly, quietly. With Aziraphale's head tucked beneath his chin, Crowley couldn't help but continue to scan the room. "But you wouldn't be here if you weren't, so it's fine by me."

The demon lifted an arm slightly, and hesitated. He wasn't exactly good at affection. He knew how to go through the motions of it, knew all the things that were supposedly so enjoyable about it, but he'd never really bothered with it himself. Mostly because the only object of his affection that had ever _been_ was, until very recently, off limits.

Now he was pressed against him.

Crowley set a hand to the small of Aziraphale's back and dragged it slowly upward, following the curve of his spine. He splayed the same hand at the base of his neck, lingering there for a moment at his nape, quietly appreciating the warmth and sensation of soft skin beneath his touch. Then, he tangled his fingers - tightly, but not too tightly - into Aziraphale's hair, pressed him nearer.

The other arm coiled tightly around his waist. Possessive, protective, and for the moment, unapologetic.

"Are you alright?" After the fright. With this. He wasn't sure what he was asking, either.

Aziraphale allowed himself to be pulled close, nuzzling into him with a soft contented sigh, wishing it could last forever. The fear and doubt melted away, leaving only goodness. He felt as if time itself had stopped, and wasn’t altogether convinced that it hadn’t. He particularly enjoyed the hand in his hair. He’d been drawn close before, a long time ago, but it wasn’t with _him_ , and it wasn’t like this. He didn’t think such a feeling of bliss existed.

To his surprise, there were no tingles. No blush. No embarrassment, or shame, or tension. No awkward clumsiness that so often came with touching bodies for the first time. Just a soft, uplifting, unfettered stillness and a joy beyond measure. The worries that seemed to constantly plague his mind were quieted, placated. Maybe for the first time since the beginning.

He gently spoke, his voice soft and almost musical, purely angelic and shining with Divine Light, “Yes”. It was a straightforward answer, but it was impactful. It was, even in its simplicity, filled with utter and complete devotion. It was an affirmation. Yes, to all of the unanswered questions, to reassure his own anxiety, to melt away guilt and regret and any other mercurial feeling that chose to dig itself into his heart. He didn’t know if anything could be wrong, not ever again.

Crowley's own heartbeat - which Aziraphale was able to hear firsthand, hammering away in his chest - gradually began to slow as the calm washed over him. It had taken a bit longer for that warmth to settle into the demon's soul - his hackles had been raised not a moment earlier, whatever equivalent of adrenaline existed for someone like him coursing through his veins at an alarming rate that took time to reign itself in.

He'd been afraid.

That single word, uttered by Aziraphale, so perfect in the stillness of the flat, brought Crowley crashing back into the moment. A levee somewhere long forgotten within him crumbled and was instantaneously consumed by the rush of centuries of want. He tried not to shudder - only partway succeeded - and slowly bowed his head. His nose brushed the crook of Aziraphale's neck. The demon inhaled deeply, and thin fingers coiled, vice-like, into soft material of the other's new coat. The scent of him was all sweet and biblichor and ethereal and _home_.

Crowley shut his eyes. If this were all he ever got, he decided, the wait would've been worth it all the same.

Gradually, the tension in the fingers threaded into Aziraphale's hair slackened - but he didn't pull away. Instead he began to trace slow paths over his scalp, around the curves of his ears, the softer hair at the back of his neck. Exploring. Taking in every inch and committing it to memory because he didn't know when it was going to end. His breath was warm on Aziraphale's neck, measured and shallow, as if he were taking every precaution not to disturb the moment. He traced the collar of his shirt, resisted the urge to delve beneath and slid his hand up to cup his face instead. His thumb traced a cheekbone, reverent.

Crowley's head was still bowed, his eyes still closed. He was already being selfish, he knew. He also knew that as soon as he looked at Aziraphale, the moment would end, because the last thread of his self control was already too frayed, worn too near the point of breaking.

Aziraphale let Crowley’s hands explore. He felt a shivering in their wake, a tingle of electricity that flowed over his skin like a small breeze. The breath, hot on his neck, caused goosebumps to trail down his arms, and the fine silvery-white hairs stood on their ends. With a quivering breath, he realized, the moment was nearing its end.

His breath became deep and slow, relaxed but wanting. His hands found their way to the collarbone he’d been so desperate to gnaw on, tracing the crevices that, he fantasized, would hold his lips all too well. The mood was shifting, he could feel it, could feel the heat generating between them, the tension rising with each gratifying caress of fingertips.

Aziraphale could feel the fire rising to his cheeks, and they burned bright with his lust. He looked up at Crowley, whose lips were so close, right there, and it would be so easy to just…

He found himself drawn to them, a dark magnetized temptation that was nearing unbearable. He realized that, at some point, he’d inched closer. Not very far now, not far at all…

“Crowley,” he whispered, his gentle voice tinged with breathlessness.

The angel’s eyes were cerulean pools, too easy in which to get lost, even easier to drown. They exuded what he couldn’t say- the desire coiling itself in the pit of his stomach; the temptation to fall into Crowley’s lips and get lost in their lustfulness; the reservations and fear; the knowledge that, on some level other than visceral, the moment was slightly premature.

It was a cry for direction- for Crowley to make it stop, as if it were his fault somehow- and it was also a pleading desperation, to edge closer, to complete the action, to finally close the distance between them. Aziraphale was trapped in the moment, frozen. The choice- like any other choice which seemed insurmountable- was left to a Higher Power. Except this time, it wasn’t God. It was Crowley.

Crowley felt the breath of his name against his own lips, and his brow knit mournfully. He stayed like that for a moment, immobilized as the scales of his heart tipped. He could have him. Right here, right now. Could sate every desire he'd had for so long, claim every coveted moment, and Aziraphale wouldn't resist. He knew he wouldn't. But what came after?

His eyes opened slowly, fraught with thousands of years of unmet need, and met Aziraphale's. The angel's well-being outweighed anything else. Every time. His head tilted, and Crowley rested his forehead to Aziraphale's, willed his own breathing to slow. His yellow gaze darted downward, averting Aziraphale's, pupils wide and unfocused somewhere toward the collar of his shirt.

"How can I?" he demanded, in a rare moment of fragility. Desperation, even. The question wasn't rhetorical. His other hand lifted to join the first, framing Aziraphale's face. "It could ruin you. I could..." he left the thought unfinished, because he couldn't bear to think it. He'd fallen for less, but it had been his choice. He couldn't fathom making it for somebody else. Who even knew if it would happen, but the risk was too great, especially now - especially with the forces of Heaven and Hell both out to get them.

Crowley wasn't a higher power. He was nothing. He was _Crawley_ , and now, he was pleading for reprieve.

Aziraphale drew himself closer still, passion swelling in his chest, unadulterated devotion guiding him like invisible strings. No rules. Not anymore. Despite losing faith in Heaven, his faith in God was eternal. He brought his hands to mirror Crowley’s, holding his companions face with tenderness, running his thumbs along the line of his jaw.

He drank in the sight of Crowley’s face, the raw vulnerability that creased his brow, the sorrow that crumpled itself into his otherworldly features. He was so beautiful. The most beautiful thing Aziraphale had ever seen.

He ran through their years together, all the moments that could have ended like this one. The moments that didn’t, the hurt he caused, because of his denial, his refusal to see just how perfect their union could be.

“I love you,” he whispered, lifting his chin up, until their noses met. The words sank heavy into the air, into the fabric of reality, into his very essence.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t need one. He already knew. Aziraphale pressed their lips together, closing his eyes, letting his heart and faith guide him to what, in his soul, he knew to be right.

He lingered, a slight whimper in his throat, pouring his love into this one, single, fervent kiss. After a moment which was both far too long, and yet not long enough, he broke away, breathing heavily. After gazing into the Serpent’s eyes, falling into them, weaving their love into the tapestry of his soul, he laid his head down on Crowley’s chest wordlessly. A signal that, although he’d longed for more, he wasn’t ready for it, and needed the reassurances that only his companion could provide.

Crowley very nearly flinched at the gentle touch. He knew it so often to be paired with refusal and had steeled himself already for more of the same. Still, it hadn't come yet. He could revel in Aziraphale a moment longer, angling his head into his hands, eyes flitting back to his, dark and searching.

The angel looked different. Usually, he could see the apology before it came. The quiet want and regret that were always overridden by some higher power whose involvement Crowley didn't understand. Something sparked in his chest, flickered hungrily behind his eyes.

He never thought he'd taste salvation. Aziraphale spoke, pressed his lips to Crowley's, and suddenly the demon was drowning in it, suspended in white-hot fire that bloomed from his spine.

One hand slid back into Aziraphale's hair. The other drifted to the side of his neck and stayed there, pressed over his pulse, nails fighting the urge to dig in and drag him impossibly close. He tried to be chaste. He couldn't stop himself from tasting the seam of his lips, his own quiet groan echoing Aziraphale's. When the other began to pull away, Crowley chased him. He sought out his lips once more - only for a moment, trying to prolong the contact in any way he could.

Then he let him go.

He could contain himself.

Aziraphale settled back into his chest, and Crowley's arm found its way around him automatically, wrapped tight. He was sated - more so than he'd been in perhaps all of his immortal life, in all ways but one: an _I-told-you-so_ millennia in the making.

"I knew you liked me."

The fingers still wound in Aziraphale's hair began to work in gentle strokes.

Aziraphale was contented, secure in his demon’s arms, wrapped tight like he’d never be let go. His pulse was racing and his heart was full. His lips tingled angrily, pins and needles, aching for more, desperate for six thousand years worth of lost time. Focusing on the hands in his hair, which he enjoyed a great deal, it was easy enough to ignore the untapped desires, but they were there all the same.

“You don’t know what I like,” he retorted playfully, even though Crowley knew him better than anyone. Probably even better than he knew himself. His companion had a way of knowing what he wanted even before he himself had realized it, as history demonstrated on numerous occasions.

His smile was brighter than ever before, and the happiness glittered in his eyes. Principality he may be, but it was almost impossible to ignore the Cherub-esque beauty and cheer, as if paintings were inspired by his joy and light.

He caressed Crowley’s bare collarbone and chest, fingers tracing up the lines of neck and jaw, and back down again. Eagerly lingering on the top button of his shirt, hesitating to move past it, inclined to loosen them one by one greedily.

He could feel the lust growing, lapping at his thoughts hungrily, tempting him to do all manners of things, in all manners of ways. He closed his eyes and drew a deep, shaky breath, trying to overcome it, but he didn’t trust himself. His resolve had weakened significantly, The Kiss turning his defenses into little more than passive suggestions.

It was time to go.

He slowly, if not somewhat unwillingly, extracted himself from Crowley’s embrace, the hunger dancing in his eyes, the temptation etching itself into the lines of his brow.

“I ought to get going,” he stated casually, but there was a pain and hoarseness in his voice that made the desire all the more obvious.

"I know damn near everything you like," The demon countered, the usual drawl creeping back into his voice, albeit with an air of even further laziness.

It was a wonder that Aziraphale was able to extract himself at all from Crowley's vice grip. The demon had been watching the movements of the other's hands, gentle and exploratory as they were, through lidded eyes, but hadn't pressed him further. He looked up in mild confusion when the angel shifted - tightened his hold briefly before allowing him to rise.

His brow furrowed. "'Ought to get going?'," he scoffed. "You're _going_?" There wasn't real weight or offense to it. This was par for the course when Aziraphale left him - the demonic version of his pout, perhaps - though the want for him to stay twisted very legitimately in his gut.

"You can't _go_. That's ridiculous. Where are you going to go, home to stew in a bath and wish you were here?"

The angel put a finger to Crowley’s lips.

“Hush now,” he said, somewhat impatiently. It was still a gentle tone, though gruffer than usual. The ache intensified, almost maddening, and he knew that soon there’d be no escaping it.

He leaned forward and whispered in Crowley’s ear, seductively by nature of the act, “We aren’t ready for the things I want to do to you, and very soon I won’t be able to stop myself”. He hadn’t meant it to be erotic, though in truth it couldn’t be anything else. He simply had no mental energy to spare for pleasantries.

Unable to control the agony pumping through his veins, wanting just a little bit more; he lightly kissed the demon’s neck. He hovered, lips brushing his skin, until he was able to find his last thread of composure. With regret, he tore himself away, barely able to contain his impulses.

Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushed with tormented pleasure and his breath was heavy, restless. The hunger in his eyes seemed insatiable. He turned his back to Crowley.

“Right, ah- I’ll be… I’ll be leaving now,” and with a small wave of his hand, not daring to retrieve his gloves or reading glasses, he promptly departed.

Aziraphale's finger met his lips and Crowley's eyes narrowed, petulant. By some miracle he managed to resist the urge to bite at the digit - though he had to clench his fists to do so.

When the angel leaned forward and began to speak into his ear - Crowley barely even registered the words, which was a good thing, as if he had there wasn't a chance in Heaven or Hell that Aziraphale was turning his back on him - he all but melted toward him. He was trying not to react. He wanted to prove to him that he could handle himself.

Then, Aziraphale's lips grazed his neck. His head tilted, accommodating, and Crowley couldn't help but emit a soft growl of frustration. Sometimes, he thought, the other made a better demon than he did. Still, he managed to keep his hands to himself - glowering slightly when Aziraphale pulled away. For perhaps the first time the angel had seen, a faint pink tinge darkened Crowley's pale cheeks.

"Go," he muttered. While he could've handled himself before, now there wouldn't be a chance. "Have a good night," he called after him, half-sarcastic. "I'll be here when you decide you prefer the real thin-- _wait_ ," Crowley lurched forward abruptly. He didn't want Aziraphale out the door first, not after hearing... whatever it was he'd heard earlier, but the angel was already gone, apparently safely on his way.

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief and sat back, squeezing his eyes shut to replay the events of the day in his mind.

He tried to recall every detail. He was fairly certain he managed, with more or less pinpoint accuracy. It wasn't the type of thing one forgot.

Gradually, Crowley sank back into the sofa. Then he sprawled across it - half-coiled atop the blanket Aziraphale'd left behind. It still smelled like him, he noted, glum in the abrupt loneliness that seemed all the more marked when there were hints of him left behind.

In reality, Crowley was quite happy. He knew he had nothing to complain about - nothing valid, at least. Eventually, when the sudden betrayal of Aziraphale abandoning him had worn off - a faint and devious smile crept its way onto Crowley's features. He wondered about the things he wanted to do to him. He was torn from his reveries by the unexpected sound of his television clicking on. Immediately, he regarded it through narrowed eyes.

Static. There was a reason his stereo didn't have speakers, but he supposed it had been an inevitability that Hell would figure out the ins and outs of smart televisions. Still - they hadn't quite gotten the picture right on this one. Crowley was just about to turn it off when something caught his attention.

He listened closer.

Alongside the static, he was certain he heard the buzzing of flies.

"Oh, _Fuck off_ ," he growled, and the television went black.

The bookshop's door was open.

The first thing Aziraphale was likely to notice upon entering the shop was the smell. It was the sort that stuck in your nose days after it struck you, a sickening mix of sulfur and rot.

The second, perhaps, were the muddied footprints which led to the back room.

None of his merchandise had been ravaged, barring a stack or two which had been carelessly knocked over when someone kicked the small coffee table into them. There, in the table's vacated position, lay the source of the overpowering scent.

It was a large serpent. Nothing like the serpents found on earth - in fact, it rather resembled another serpent Aziraphale knew (if you squinted). This serpent, it seemed, had been disemboweled right there in the angel's shop. Its innards were scattered haphazardly before it - and amongst them, a crude cross had been drawn of the thick ichor that comprised the creatures blood. A horde of flies buzzed ravenously about the corpse, but strangely, ignored the pristine red apple that'd been stuffed betwixt its jaws, propping them open in a grotesque display that revealed a lack of fangs. Those had been removed with some care - enough to keep the skull of the creature in tact - and were nowhere to be seen.

Neither was anyone else. There were no odd sounds, no notes left behind. Just Aziraphale's new friend, and the ominous implication it bore.


	3. I'm Beginning to See the Light

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, eyeing the open door with an equal amount of suspicion and alarm. He wanted to assume it was Crowley- who’d come over for some reason- but Crowley would never leave the door ajar.

The wall of scent terrorized his senses as he crossed the entryway, and he hesitated. _Sulfur_. The smell was nauseatingly thick, choking him, and stinging his eyes. _Demons_. Either a lot of them or an incredibly powerful one, judging based on the smell.

His eyes trailed the footprints and he was afraid to walk further, but he stepped onward. He edged his way to the light switch, flicking it on with trembling fingers. He knew the bookshop’s layout by heart, but anything could be lurking amongst the stacks. He stood still, listening for anything out of the ordinary, and pressed on when he was sure there was nothing prowling, waiting to spring out.

Cautiously, he crept along the muddy footprints, nearly gagging as the smell was worse, somehow stronger. He tipped open the door to his backroom, light flooding into it from behind him, illuminating the monstrosity.

Fear. It was so intense he could taste it. He had no fear for himself, though in the circumstances he ought to, but he was worried for Crowley. This lead him to believe the noises from earlier were now a pressing matter.

He understood Crowley’s reaction now, completely. Aziraphale had always been bullied by his Heavenly superiors, but it was nothing like this. Nothing so sinister, so despicably evil. It reaffirmed his belief that Crowley was closer to an angel rather than a demon.

He stared at the snake with deep, crushing sorrow, remembering The Garden from all those years ago, and the day they’d met, the day Crowley fell in love. It was at first sight- he knew- and despite trying to force it away, he always knew. He said a quick prayer for the creature’s soul, but didn’t edge any closer, and didn’t want to touch it.

With a great sense of urgency, tears streaming down his face and skin mottled with pink blotches, he rushed out of the shop, directly back to Crowley’s. When he arrived, he hammered on the door, yelling for his companion.

He waited approximately 5 seconds. Not able to stand a moment longer and hearing nothing inside (though not trying very hard), he smashed the door near its handle. His hand, cut open by the sharp edges and splintering wood, began bleeding profusely, dark red droplets splashing onto the floor beside him. Based on the dull, grinding ache, he assumed it was also broken, but there was no time. He scooped up the doorknob by his feet, miracling the metal into a sharp pointed dagger, and kicked the door open.

“ **CROWLEY!** ” he bellowed, features twisted by anguish and panic, “ **CROWLEY WHERE ARE YOU?!** ”

It had been eons since the Great War, since he had been a Lieutenant of his own platoon. Angels had died by his side, and by his hand. There was no flaming sword in his grip, but he was prepared for battle all the same. His eyes still streamed tears, and despite his softness, he was prepared, for the first time in over 6000 years, to kill.

Crowley, who had hoped to spend the next few hours thoroughly _enjoying_ the afterglow of Aziraphale's visit, had his mood completely spoiled the moment the television had turned on. He'd spent his time instead dismounting the monstrous screen from the wall. He was heaving it down with strength he shouldn't possibly have possessed (the screen was still buzzing, though it was no longer plugged in) when he heard the abrupt pounding at the door.

Crowley's lip twitched. Nothing in his mind told him it was Aziraphale standing outside, despite it most definitely being Aziraphale's voice - it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It wasn't like demons couldn't do _voices_. That was elementary stuff. Did they really think he'd fall for it?

The television cracked onto the ground, screen spidering into a thousand tiny pieces. It flickered out momentarily, then continued to buzz. Crowley snapped his fingers. A large bucket appeared before him, and he quickly (but carefully) unscrewed the cap, letting it fall to the side opposite where he was standing. A foot rested on the lip of the container and Crowley narrowed his eyes toward the door, waiting.

The door flew open, and Crowley was shocked to see that it really was Aziraphale standing there. Standing there... with a weapon, and one of his hands covered in blood. That was a new coat. Something had happened. For a moment he stood there, glassy-eyed, staring at him in utter shock. In that moment, he swore he could see the shadows of his wings. Crowley hadn't fought in the war - not really. But he knew Aziraphale had, and now, he could actually see it.

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, then stopped abruptly - looked down at the television ( _bzzzzz_ ). With a glare that spoke hatred in volumes, he withdrew his foot from the bucket and crossed over to stomp the back of the console. Finally, the infernal noise ceased. "Aziraphale," Crowley finally responded. His tone was smooth as ever - not because he wasn't alarmed, but because all it had taken was one look at his friend to know that something _terrible_ had happened, and someone needed to stay calm.

"I'm right where you left me, darling," he crooned, as if the scene Aziraphale'd burst in on wasn't anything out of the ordinary. A quiet rage burned behind Crowley's eyes as he strode across the room to meet him, giving the container of holy water a wide berth - someone had done something. "What's happened?" (a darker voice inside him growled, _Who?_ ).

He couldn't keep all the urgency from his tone - though he was already reaching automatically for the other's wounded hand. He'd gone from terrified to enraged in a matter of moments, but the sight of blood anywhere on Aziraphael's current body frightened him more than anything else he could recall. His hands betrayed him, quaking mildly as he tried to heal the worst of the wounds, ignoring the voice in his head which told him not to, that he might make it worse if he tried; he couldn't even address Aziraphale properly until he wasn't bleeding.

Eyes closed, Aziraphale stretched a hand to the buzzing TV. There was a rumbling, as if a thunderstorm was in Crowley’s living room, and a blinding, white pillar of light flashed before them, destroying the TV entirely. There was no trace left- dissolved completely, as if it never existed at all.

Aziraphale’s breath was ragged, labored with fear, and anger, and relief. His silvery blonde curls were damp with sweat, and there was no trace of the usual cheeriness in his eyes. He looked like a proper angel. Not the kind, loving Cherubs or beautiful angelic beings depicted in art, or the cute, doting angels who appeared on holy fonts and stained glass windows. A Biblical angel, fearsome and terrible; the beings of smiting and flood, vengeance and war.

He allowed Crowley to grip his opposite, wounded hand, wincing as the bones were reset and the flesh knitted together. It still gripped the dagger tightly, unwilling to let down his guard. The pulsating energy of violence surrounded him, and he scanned the apartment with narrowed eyes which glittered with bloodlust.

When he was satisfied there was no immediate threat, he closed his eyes, and took a deep, long breath. The knife was gone, as well as the container of holy water, disappeared into miraculous oblivion. He reminded himself of the light, his light, the divinity and purity that coursed through him. He wanted to be the sweet, soft Aziraphale- that’s who he truly was. Not a monstrous angel of Heaven.

He looked up at Crowley with wide, distraught eyes, fresh hot tears beginning to fill them to the brim. The violence faded out of his features, replaced by love and worry. He threw himself into Crowley’s arms, letting his composure crumble into a million pieces, letting himself feel the comfort and relief that only Crowley could offer.

“You’re okay,” he whispered weakly, cupping his face with his healed hand, “Thank the Heavens”. He realized he was trembling, though whether out of fear or adrenaline he couldn’t determine. He miracled a bottle of whiskey, and, after taking a long, deep drink, felt calm enough to speak properly.

He began to recount, in great detail, what had been waiting for him inside the shop. The fangless, flayed creature, resembling the Serpent from the Garden, an apple placed delicately in its mouth. The panic and fear, as he related this to the noise in Crowley’s apartment earlier that evening.

The demon flinched visibly as white light filled the room, jolting halfway around Aziraphale and averting his gaze with a wince. _Somehow_ , he managed to withhold the string of curses fighting to burst out of him, and his nerves frayed that much farther.

  
Aziraphale _did_ look like a proper angel, and Crowley spared a moment of hesitation before reaching out to touch him again. Somehow, it didn't feel like he should. Like he might vaporize into a sulfuric mist on the spot if he did. He trusted Aziraphale, in spite of the reminder that he could indeed dispatch him in an instant if he chose to, and when he reached out to take his hand again his own had ceased shaking. When he was confident the last of his wounds were gone and the bones were all in place, Crowley made a point of lifting the blood stains, too. Then, finally, he looked to the other's face.

He witnessed the transition between Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate and _his_ Aziraphale. _His_ angel. The more the other returned to him, the more his own tensions subsided.

"I'm alright. I'm _fine_ ," he repeated, catching the angel immediately as he flung himself toward him. The edge was breaking into his voice - he could see now that the other wasn't harmed in any significant way, which meant that Aziraphale had been worried for _him_. As the angel relayed what he'd seen, Crowley's gaze darkened. His eyes, usually such a glaring bright yellow almost seemed to show a deeper orange in the soft light.

"A love note. They must really miss me down there," Crowley tried to be dismissive, tried to make it seem it was Hellish business as usual. Normally they weren't so creative. It would've taken a special brand of hatred for any of them to come up with something like _that_. One hand rose between them, thumbing the tears from Aziraphale's cheeks, while the other arm coiled about him far tighter than was strictly comfortable.

"Beelzebub left me a voicemail earlier. Might've been them," he nodded toward the spot where the television used to be. He didn't sound overly frightened, but he'd also been standing over a vat of holy water when Aziraphale burst in. "All bark and no bite, really. Imagine they just thought they'd get a rise out of you to get to me," he caressed the other's cheek. "That or they actually managed to organize a _cooperative_ effort for once, but I'd be surprised if they managed. More likely they popped in, heard you were _here_ , popped over _there_... you know." His thin shoulders lofted into what he thought was a casual shrug. He'd seem perfectly at ease, if not for his eyes, which betrayed him outright.

He fetched a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his teary eyes daintily. Aziraphale smiled a sweet thanks, not realizing his new coat had blood on it. His mind briefly fluttered on the memory of Crowley miracling away paint from his usual coat, and the memory cheered him slightly. It seemed like it was a lifetime ago, though it wasn’t long ago at all. Throughout history, Aziraphale always waited for Crowley to save him, to spoil him with miracles, to turn up at the last possible moment with all the right words. Perhaps he’d gotten too used to it, took advantage of it. He regretted not appreciating it properly over the years.

“Crowley. Don’t lie to me,” he said softly, the gentleness returning to his voice. “You had holy water.” He shook his head disapprovingly, a crease in his brow. Aziraphale _hated_ Crowley possessing holy water. One tumble, a misstep, one accident- no matter how small- and that would be the end. Too quick of an end to say goodbye, and yet, it was prolonged enough to be a painful, terrible way to die. No matter how careful Crowley was around holy water, it was incredibly dangerous for him to be near it in any capacity. He refrained from lecturing- Crowley already knew how he felt about the holy water business.

“What did the message say?”

He wondered who in Heaven would possibly work with demons. They all hated him for being close with Crowley, among other things- though, _close_ was relative. He suspected that it would be Uriel or Michael, though Michael did agree to leave Crowley alone during his trip to Hell. Gabriel seemed too righteous to work with The Opposition, but he could never be too sure. None of the angels were very trustworthy, a fact that slipped him by while he was still in Heaven’s good graces. It was glaringly obvious now.

"It's insurance," Crowley assured him, familiarly. Despite the other's insistence he not lie to him, the demon decided that now wouldn't be the best time to correct Aziraphale. Crowley _still_ had holy water. He had quite a lot of it, and he didn't really want to explain how or why. It'd seemed like a good investment after it had worked so _well_ for him before, was all.

"Well, I don't speak _insect_ , but I'd imagine..." Crowley lofted an eyebrow as he considered it, mouth slightly ajar - and then he gave a half nod. "It said: come down to Hell and murder us all Crowley, with your holy water. Don't suppose I could have that back?" His tone was flippant. His eyes still weren't. "It'll be a bit harder without it."

Crowley didn't know, and he didn't particularly care which Heavenly influences may or may not have been involved. He had a shortlist of those in Heaven he'd like to dispatch, if he ever got the chance. He'd never tell Aziraphale, because he didn't think the other'd appreciate it - especially considering the reasoning. This instance - at least as far as he thought - was all Hell. Except maybe, the apple. They tended to appreciate the apple down there.

When Aziraphale had calmed slightly, Crowley carefully withdrew himself and went to retrieve his jacket. "Let's go," he fished his glasses from a pocket. "I want to see it. And I mean it about the holy water."

“Crowley,” he protested, “I don’t like you having a _suicide pill_. What if something happens? What if you spill it on yourself or have an accident? It would _destroy you_!” The words tumbled out of his mouth, familiar and angry, almost as if they were rehearsed. He couldn’t lose Crowley. They’d been on Earth together for so long- he didn’t know how to live without him. He never wanted to find out, either.

As they left the apartment together, Aziraphale was grateful for the burst of cool night air. It was refreshing, caressing his skin like a long lost lover, and the chill helped clear his head. He settled into the passenger’s seat of Crowley’s beloved car comfortably, and it practically conformed to him. The ride was filled with the usual discomforts of his companion’s incredibly reckless driving. He hated it, but he’d also come to trust it. No accidents so far… besides the one.

He pondered the holy water problem. He knew that Crowley had more trepidation than he was letting on. He always did, where Hell was concerned, and (as he’d come to learn) with good reason. Aziraphale didn’t want to leave him defenseless against those _monsters_. But he couldn’t in good conscience hand over something so destructive and dangerous. He felt torn all over again, just like the first time.

“What if we stay together?” he asked, somewhat restless, the anxiety constricting his thoughts. “If you have me around, you won’t need holy water laying all about the place, stored improperly. It would be less dangerous. And I could… I could make all the holy water we would ever need.” Above everything and anything, he wanted Crowley to be safe. He’d do whatever it took to protect him.

"Not a suicide pill," Crowley corrected him sharply as they walked. "I wouldn't, not now. And I'm _careful_ \- you know how careful I am!" this said as they made their way to the Bentley, where he would certainly demonstrate just how _careful_ he could be. With all that had transpired between them, even with access to all the holy water in the world, the demon would never be able to use it on himself - not when there was even a shred of hope that he might somehow scrape by. Accidents were a different story, but Crowley didn't have accidents.

He drove faster than usual. One had to have the sneaking suspicion that the vehicle couldn't possibly operate so smoothly at this speed on its own - much like when he'd driven it aflame, it was the demon's sheer force of will that kept it from coming apart at the seams as he veered along the road over one hundred miles per hour. The tires screeched protest at the slightest turn, but still, Crowley seemed calm.

"You don't want to stay together," Crowley shot a pointed glance in Aziraphale's direction, jerking the wheel to avoid an oncoming car. It didn't sound like that was a _problem_ for Crowley - just a fact he knew and understood. The angel enjoyed his reprieve, and he didn't blame him. "We'd already be, if you did. It's alright," he assured before the other had time to counter the point, holding up a hand between them to quiet any protest. In truth, he ached to say yes. It would solve so many of their problems so _easily_ \- but Crowley also didn't want it to create new ones. He didn't want Aziraphale forced into staying because he was _afraid_. Not when he'd waited so long for it. Those fuckers weren't going to take the satisfaction from him.

"No holy water," he agreed. The car screeched to a halt in front of the bookshop. Record time.

No accidents.

" _But_ \- when your friends upstairs come for you," Crowley wagged a finger skyward as he alighted, rounding the vehicle to wait for Aziraphale, "you're installing a fireplace in every room, I'm filling them with immortal Hellfire, and you're tending them carefully for the rest of your days. I could do the same with a few artistic fountains. Never even have to touch them, would I?"

Aziraphale spent the ride, like every other ride together, holding on for dear life. Every sharp turn made him wince, and he’d uttered more than a few gasps by the time the drive was done. He was relieved when the car came to a halt, although it meant they’d have to go inside. That they’d have to see the snake, flayed and mutilated, and smell the overwhelming sting of sulfur.

He was sulking, somewhat, at Crowley’s refusal to _stay together_. It isn’t that Aziraphale didn’t want to stay together- before, he was bound by Heaven. Now, he was just worried about how things might change. That maybe they’d fall apart.

He not only worried about losing Crowley due to holy water accidents, demons and all manner of unholy creatures, disastrous driving, and general misfortune- he also worried about driving him away, by corroding his affections somehow, or by boring him and generally just not being _enough_ , which Aziraphale thought was particularly likely.

Bringing up the subject, he recalled the hurt on his companion’s face, the memory of rejecting him ( _twice_ ), breaking his heart all over again. His lip quivered in earnest, but it was subtle, and hopefully went undetected.

“ _Honestly_ ,” he tutted, grateful for a change of subject, “Hellfire? Me? Don’t be ridiculous.” The thought of Heaven coming for them gave him an entirely new set of worries, that, in his present state, he was hardly fit to deal with.

He could protect Crowley from demons, for the most part. He couldn’t protect either of them from Heaven. The thought terrified him. It seemed like everything did these days. His nerves, which had calmed just a few hours prior, were already a tangled, knotted mess. He felt the muscle tension creeping into his shoulders, clenching his jaw.

They left the Bentley and headed for the bookshop. The door was still open, lights on. Thankfully not plundered by any of the numerous, “interesting” humans wandering about in Soho.

Crowley assumed that Aziraphale knew what he wanted by now. He _had_ to. And when he had already been rejected ( _twice_ ) and had to swallow his pride and accept it ( _twice!_ ), he wasn't willing to let anything else influence the final decision. It was inevitable. Ineffable? The demon didn't care which. He'd wanted him for six thousand years. He'd _followed him_ for six thousand years. Nothing was going to change his mind. After all that time, he'd only recently started tallying victories. He wanted them to count.

"Hellfire! You. _Honestly_. You'll need it. I saw the looks on their faces - they wouldn't so much as come near you if you had some around!" Crowley was deathly serious. "Never seen them that scared of anything else... but I suppose you'd know better than me."

The demon reached out to nudge open the shop's door with one hand, poking his head inside. He took a deep breath. "Smells like home, alright," he muttered with a distasteful cringe, withdrawing back into the cool night air. "Look - you can wait here if you'd like. I know it's nasty business." He felt badly enough Aziraphale'd had to see it at all. Part of him hoped he'd stay behind and let him take care of it - he didn't particularly want the angel to see his reaction.

With fair certainty that he wasn't going to get his wish, Crowley strode inside. He didn't bother checking the corners of the shop; the smell was most _definitely_ Beelzebub. He'd recognize it anywhere, and it'd be much stronger were they still around. He crossed the threshold of the entryway to the back room - halted in his tracks at the macabre scene before him. He'd certainly seen worse. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything so personal.

The corner of his mouth twitched downward, and he stood there, motionless.

“I don’t want to be around hellfire,” he said uncomfortably. “It could _kill_ me. Gone forever. Just like that. It’s isn’t like being discorporated, Crowley. There’s no coming back”. After a moment, he added, as if it were the most important part, “I wouldn’t even get to say goodbye”.

He wrinkled his nose, grimacing, when the smell of sulfur hit. He had a natural revulsion to it. It stung his eyes and clawed at his throat, causing him to cough a few times. He couldn’t fathom living in Hell, breathing in this scent permanently. Aziraphale wondered why Crowley didn’t smell like sulfur, and made a mental note to ask him about it later.

Aziraphale contemplated staying outside, but he didn’t want to be alone. He was still shaken from coming home to this mess, but the panic of Crowley’s safety was worse. Most importantly, and despite his aversion to the situation, he didn’t want Crowley to be alone. He’d never forgive himself if something terrible happened while he was here, selfishly waiting outside.

Taking his handkerchief out, he covered his nose and mouth in an attempt to reduce his exposure to the awful, nauseating cloud of sulfur. He followed Crowley, trailing behind him several paces, trying not to be in the way. He _really_ didn’t want to see the poor animal again, but now his mind raced with the possibility of Heaven’s involvement. He felt he ought to look for clues, to see if he could discern anything that might unravel the mystery. He stopped behind Crowley, giving him space should he require it, and peered around his side for a peek at the carnage.

" _They_ wouldn't even have to kill you," Crowley murmured, still taking in the sight. After a few moments he moved closer, crouched near the corpse to get a better look. "All they'd have to do is find you and take you back. I couldn't...," he paused, reconsidered. "At least the fire'd give you a chance. But fine, no Hellfire. We shall remain completely defenseless, on the off chance one of us slips and falls." He sounded oddly removed from the conversation - down to the abnormally unenthused sarcasm. Partly, it was the sight before him, the anger spreading through him diverting his attention. Mostly, it was that the prospect terrified him too much to _really_ think about. He wanted to move on.

"We'll figure something out." Crowley would just have to spend more time lurking, less time sleeping. It was worth it if it meant Aziraphale would be safe; he wasn't sure how to accomplish that other than keeping an eye on the shop.

The demon glanced over his shoulder to make sure Aziraphale was well out of the way, then snapped his fingers to set the whole mess ablaze.

"Mine or yours tonight?" he asked upon rising back to his feet, casual as the flames licked heavenward behind him. Nothing else seemed to be catching. "Mine'll smell nicer. I can take the couch - or you can, and read all you like - unless you've finally discovered the joy of sleeping?" He knew the angel'd wanted the night to himself, and he felt fairly confident in his ability to let him have it, but Crowley was clearly shaken (despite his best efforts not to seem it), and didn't want Aziraphale anywhere he _wasn't_.

Eventually, the fire would burn away to ash. A few flies still flew lazy circles around the room, but the corpse and the gore surrounding it were gone. With a slight wave of his hand, Crowley restored the table to its proper position, swept the remnants of the mess into nothingness. He didn't want to investigate. He wanted to burn everyone responsible and forget it ever happened.

The smell lingered. He couldn't do anything about that.

He felt guilty at mentioning Hellfire's permanency. Crowley was right.. It didn't matter- if either of them died (even if not _forever_ ), there was a possibility they'd never see each other again. They were going to different places. They'd always be going to different places.

The thought put him in a gloomy mood and there was a twisted, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Aziraphale's lip quivered intermittently, whenever he was reminded of their tragic state of the afterlife. To him, there was no life after. Not without Crowley.

He didn't protest when the demon burnt the remains, but he did jump back slightly. The hellfire devoured the carnage hungrily, and it was hauntingly beautiful. There was a fear in knowing that Crowley could easily kill him, if he'd wanted to. Despite their trust in each other, and love, that power would always be there. He found that both magnetic and terrible- it was a type of "safe" danger that Aziraphale found appealing and, on some level, irresistible.

Aziraphale nodded at the question, grateful to have Crowley by his side. He wanted to protect him any possible way.

"Yours, most definitely. I can't stand this smell". After a moment, he added, "I thought you... didn't want to stay together?" He asked curiously, even innocently, in his typical musical intonation, not wanting to put Crowley in a worse mood.

He snapped his fingers and an overnight bag appeared in his hands. It wasn't miracled in existence- it was from upstairs. They walked out of the shop together and Aziraphale locked the door behind them.

Crowley took the overnight bag from Aziraphale as soon as it'd appeared, slinging it over his shoulder on the walk back toward the car. He purposefully followed the trail of muddy footprints, each fading into nothingness as he stepped over them in turn, registering their size and make.

"Angel," Crowley began, halting for a moment when they reached the door (before they stepped outside). His words didn't need any consideration - they were straightforward and to the point and conveyed a truth with the weight of several thousand years behind them - "If I didn't have to, I'd never stay anywhere else. I _want_ to stay with you. I want you to want it too," the edge of conviction waned from his tone. "It doesn't have to be permanent. Just a few days until I figure out what's next. We can see how you like the trial run before we decide anything, yeah?"

It hadn't been that long ago Crowley'd had to listen to Aziraphale tell him no. _Twice_. Even in the face of destruction. He didn't blame him, of course - how could he? The other'd been trying to save everyone. The demon's scope had been slightly narrower, more selfish. He'd only wanted to save one person.

Anyway, Crowley wanted to be sure he wasn't on the verge of a strikeout before he got his hopes up again.

He stowed Aziraphale's bag and climbed into the driver's seat. The engine purred to life, and Crowley spent a moment or two reveling in it with his hands on the wheel. He felt like he should say something - something about the actual situation. "I'm sorry they stunk up your shop," he settled on eventually. Ducks on water. Water on ducks? Whichever; Crowley was still Hell-bent on acting like it was just another day at the office. "Should be able to get rid of it with some incense. Your lot's sort of incense, I mean."

Aziraphale smiled slightly to himself, watching Crowley miracle away the footprints one by one and carry his overnight bag. Crowley knew that he'd be able to do it himself. The demon was always performing miracles for him, and seemed to have a casual, yet expectant, flair for doing so. These acts of service, so common throughout the years, had become automatic. Aziraphale felt a warmth spread through his chest, uplifting his spirits; he was a happy, spoiled angel.

He nearly ran into his companion, who'd stopped unexpectedly. He listened to, what he felt, was an undeserved chastising, with his head down, eyeing his feet.

The dread washed over him, still fairly convinced that as he drew closer to Crowley, allowed himself to become vulnerable and hopelessly intertwined, things between them would begin to slowly disintegrate until nothing was left.

He knew that his refusals had wounded Crowley, but didn't expect to see it so raw, still aching. He wondered if somehow the wound was festering, worsening with time- if it would eventually become a rift between them. He made a silent promise to make it up to him, in some way, and to earn his forgiveness.

He settled himself back into _his_ seat, comforted to be anywhere without sulfur infested air, and looked at Crowley with a half smile. He found himself playing along with the casual atmosphere, whether it was for Crowley's sake or his own he was unsure.

"Yes. Yes, but... why don't _you_ smell like sulfur?" He inquired with a curious head tilt. "You never smelled of sulfur, not even in The Garden". No matter the answer, in Aziraphale's fragile angelic heart, he was convinced it was because Crowley was a Fallen angel, but still an angel all the same.

"You remember what I smelled like in The Garden?" Crowley tilted his head toward Aziraphale with a toothy grin.

The demon lifted a hand to his nose and giving his own wrist a sniff. "Used to think I did, sometimes. But I do things like _bathe_. Not a whole lot of that down in Hell." He shrugged, and set his hand back on the wheel. "I'd wager that back in the Garden I hadn't been down there long enough for the stink to sink in yet... stayed a snake most of the time, anyway. Easier to get around."

The engine's purr amplified into a roar, and they were off.

"I've spent as little time downstairs as demonically possible. Most of the others practically roll in the stuff. I think the effort makes a real difference," Crowley decided not to point out that they didn't always smell that way. If they were trying to fit in, it was easy as pie to make the smell unnoticeable as any of the rest of their unusual features. This time, they'd wanted to make it obvious.

He couldn't help but look a bit self satisfied at knowing he'd never picked up the stench. He'd always gone to a lot of effort to make himself presentable. Normal, in whatever little ways he could. It felt good to know that sometimes, it worked.

He shifted gears and sped on. The drive back wasn't quite so frantic - Crowley _had_ calmed, somewhat, as time went on with the angel beside him. Blatant threats against his person were a rather new category in his library of repressed reactions and emotions; they took a little more time to file away. But he knew, after seeing the display in person, that it was a threat against him, not Aziraphale, and while it should've made things worse, it served to quell the paranoia surrounding it rather well.

"Of course I remember!" He sounded slightly offended, even though he wasn't. It was simply a result of his dramatic inflection mixed with angelic sing-song. "I remember everything about The Garden. It's where we first met".

Aziraphale, though, had always had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley somehow knew him before that day on the garden wall, overlooking the vast ocean of sand. Crowley never, not once, asked Aziraphale for his name. He also knew about the sword. Sometimes he daydreamed that The Serpent had watched him from afar. Other times, he figured that Hell had a file with his name on it, somewhere.

He wrinkled his nose. "Demons don't bathe?" It was a minor fact that, although seemed simple and innocent enough, made him recoil in horror. Crowley might has well have been talking about flayed rot and demonic possession and Hellhound spit. "Why that's... that's..." At a loss for words, he shook his head and shuddered, grimacing all the while.

A thought occurred to him suddenly, and it horrified him. "Do angels smell? Bad, I mean. Bad to demons." He innocently, and worriedly, sniffed the back of his hand.

Crowley felt a slight bubble of pleasure rise in his chest, though he tried not to let the gratification show on his features. He rarely got insight into Aziraphale's view of the entire expanse of their relationship, and he wasn't the type to inquire, but he took quiet pleasure in the notion that he'd also carefully filed away those slices of their time together, looked back on them with the same - or at least similar - fondness.

Crowley had known Aziraphale before he'd met him formally, that day in The Garden. He'd known of him before the rebellion, had learned more during, though it hadn't been until they'd actually spoken the angel was earmarked away somewhere in the Serpent's brain as one of very few people of interest. Given away his sword. Even Crowley'd been aghast.

"No pools of light in Hell, I'm afraid," Crowley lamented. "No running water either - but imagine if there was, it'd be even worse, bunch of demons with moldy wings skulking about the place," his lips curled into a sneer at the thought.

At Aziraphale's query, the demon held out a hand for his, gesturing vaguely toward himself. Whenever the other offered it he'd take hold, dragging it toward his face for a good, full-on sniff. He already knew what Aziraphale smelled like. He'd told Aziraphale he knew what he smelled like. He wasn't above using an excuse to find out anew, because he quite liked it, too. He pretended to contemplate it for a moment, then grazed his lips against the backs of the angel's knuckles before letting go.

"Absolutely awful," he deadpanned. "Can't stand it."

Crowley jerked the wheel, and the Bentley screeched to a halt curbside, the same prime spot as always.

Aziraphale held out a manicured hand and watched anxiously as Crowley examined the scent. He bit his lower lip in anticipation, and he felt a slight fluttering in his chest when the demons lips brushed against his skin.

“Oh no, oh dear!” he gasped, and clasped his hands together, genuinely concerned and disturbed by the news that he was Crowley’s equivalent of sulfur.

“Why haven’t you told me? After all these years?” He took a quick sniff at his hands, unable to smell anything sulfur like or unpleasant. Aziraphale smelled like cloves and clean laundry and old books. Well, that’s what he smelled anyway. He was half panicking now, mentally scrolling through the strongest colognes that he could try, in an attempt to be better.

Being better was always a lofty, unreachable goal in his mind. Aziraphale always had a doubt that he wasn’t good enough. He’d let Adam and Eve escape The Garden, gave away his flaming sword, sinned on a daily basis, didn’t so much as kill a single demon, and in fact, loved one. And his greatest doubt of all was that Crowley would, one day, also realize that he wasn’t good enough.

“I-I can find a new cologne!” He insisted, eyes wide and half-pleading. “Maybe you could come with me? Help me choose one?”

He let Aziraphale stew for a moment, settling back into his seat and turning to watch as the proverbial feathers ruffled. The more the angel fretted, the more trouble Crowley had reigning in the grin that wanted to plaster itself onto his features. The corner of his mouth twitched.

When the outburst had subsided, the smile finally found purchase, and Crowley actually loosed a curt laugh. "Angel," he assured, reaching across the space between them to rest his hand loosely over the one he'd just investigated. "If I didn't like it, don't you think you'd know by now?" his head rested against the seatback, and he was glad for his sunglasses as he found himself looking upon the other in a moment of unguarded adoration, completely and openly enamored. Moth to the flame.

It was easy to forget, sitting there in his car beside his favorite being in all of Creation, the less fortunate events of the day. He was sure he was meant to be dwelling on them, worrying at them, coming up with some grand subversive scheme to avoid whatever came next. For the moment, he couldn't be bothered; this was more important.

The angel blushed deeply. He heaved with a theatrical sigh of relief, and looked away bashfully. He placed his free hand on top of the demon’s, and caressed it with his thumb absentmindedly, enjoying its softness.

“Joking,” he said with a hesitant chuckle, eyeing Crowley with a twinkle in his eyes, “of course you were”. Aziraphale smiled warmly, enjoying the reprieve from anxiety. From everything. The Bentley was like a shield, hiding them from the world, shutting out all things- both Earthly and otherworldly.

Crowley had a way of putting him at ease, and it was impossible to find elsewhere. His company had always soothed his soul, cleansing even the most tenacious and disturbing thoughts.

The stress that had built over the course of the day began to melt away. Aziraphale noticed the tension leaving his shoulders, felt the apprehension disappear, and he relaxed as the more worrisome thoughts slowly dissolved from his mind.

Crowley was still watching. The cat-like grin eventually softened into a more contented half-smile (barely there - there enough, for Crowley) as he basked in Aziraphale's presence. It felt strange, in a way, doing so without some more pressing matter looming over them... nothing that demanded their immediate attention or cooperation, at least. He hadn't had to come up with some crafty excuse to be here. Hadn't had to wait for the angel to need his help. They weren't scheming anything. He didn't need anything. They just were.

Eventually, he forced himself to look away, after he'd already been staring an awfully long time. It was too easy to get lost in Aziraphale's eyes - they were so expressive in ways his own could never be, and he never tired of looking at them, appreciating all the little flickers and telling glances, however minute they may have been. "We can go someplace else, if you want," Crowley offered, absently. He liked the quiet that came with being in the Bentley, the isolation. If Aziraphale'd finally come to enjoy it too, all the better. He knew that as soon as they went upstairs he'd be confronted with the blank wall where the television used to be, reminded that everything wasn't really so perfect as it felt in the moment - and he'd only just managed to start the process of ineffectively ignoring his problems.

He'd yet to withdraw his hand - didn't plan to unless the angel ceased his attention to it. "I've got a full tank."

The tank was quite empty, but then it always had been.

Aziraphale heard echoes of their earlier conversation, in the shop. He couldn’t say no, not to this. It was too similar to previous rejections.

He was determined to earn Crowley’s forgiveness, needed to earn it, was desperate for it. The wound he had created in his companion’s tarnished soul; the festering corruption; it still bled, he knew, and it bloomed doubt and resentment. Aziraphale couldn’t bear it. He wished he could plunge his hands into Crowley’s soul and mend the darkness he’d unwillingly created, and more than that, Aziraphale would heal everything he’d ever done, every hurt he’d ever caused.

There was a brief twinge of regret in his eyes as he relived their breakup, and, out of self punishment, he forced himself to rewatch Crowley’s hurt and pain, hear the anger and anguish woven into his voice.

It would never happen again. He’d make sure of that.

“Yes,” he stated calmly, gazing into the demon’s eyes with pure devotion, “I think that’d be rather lovely”.

His features were soft and lovely, radiating Divine light. The angel brought Crowley’s hand to his lips, kissing it softly.

“We can go anywhere. Anywhere at all.”

Aziraphale would never need to earn forgiveness from Crowley. The angel was all but infallible in his eyes; he could be stupid from time to time, yes, made the sorts of mistakes that didn't count, but as far as trusting someone else's moral compass went, the demon had no doubts. It was, perhaps, why those grim occasions had managed to root so deeply within the fallen angel. Barring the occasional outright lie (which they'd both told in heated moments like those) he never once thought his friend was wrong. No -- the problem had always been knowing he was right.

If so much as a whispered notion of Aziraphale doubting he was enough for the demon ever reached his ears, he'd laugh. Crowley wasn't the one settling. He was the immortal Icarus to Aziraphale’s Sun. After six thousand years and what felt like as many attempts, he might've finally built the right wings.

He felt the other's lips upon his hand, glanced over long enough to carve the image into his memory. Then, free hand grasping the wheel, he roared back onto the road. It was dark by then, later in the evening. Knowing Aziraphale preferred it, Crowley willed the headlights on.

"'Anywhere at all''s a bit dangerous, Angel," Crowley commented, ominously. He already knew exactly where they were going. He'd had plenty of time to investigate the far corners of the world, adding to a running list of mental footnotes he subconsciously kept, which could easily be entitled Places Aziraphale Would Like. Many of them overlapped with the similar, Places Crowley likes, and their current destination happened to be both. Aziraphale didn't need to know that, yet. It wouldn't be a long drive, just long enough to have a bit of fun. "You really ought to be more specific."

Aziraphale held the demon’s hand tightly, thoroughly unwilling to let it go. He interlaced their fingers and loosely held onto Crowley’s arm. He was smitten- completely and utterly enamored. It was written in every line of his face, in every trace of happiness upon his lips, in every twinkle of his eyes.

Aziraphale had taken thousands of years to fall in love, and he’d spent just as many years denying it. The admittance had only been in his conscious mind for less than a century, and he easily recalled when it had exploded around his thoughts like the remnants of a bombed church.

After all the time and effort he’d spent suppressing it, here he was, accepting Crowley’s love with an eager, if not ravenous, heart. It had been less than a day, but it felt like he’d never been without this love. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew he really hadn’t. It was there, waiting for him to take it, all along. Ever since The Garden, when they’d first laid eyes on each other.

The angel wasn’t one to half-commit. He was here, fully; ready to dive into the depths of their unexplored romance. He was old fashioned and their courtship was more like a dance. He knew Crowley would always be here to pull him back in, entice him with all manners of promises and affections, after he’d slunk too far away.

There was no slinking. Not tonight. His soul was hungry for the affection, frantic, begging to be tied up in the ribbons of their love.

“Take me somewhere nice,” he chimed playfully, “It’s our first date”. The dance had begun.

"Is it?" Crowley asked, the peak of a lofted brow framing one half of his glasses. His fingers flexed experimentally against Aziraphale's and settled into a loose grasp. It was likely an entirely unexplored brand of affection for him, and he felt a bit awkward about it - but still not enough to pull his hand away. So long as it made the angel happy.

"I always thought it was France. You know, the crepes." It was hard to tell whether or not Crowley was teasing. "Locked in a dungeon, 'couldn't' miracle yourself out, you know the one." Realistically, he knew any feelings he'd had for Aziraphale at the time had still been far from reciprocated. He actually wasn't sure when that had changed - but he was curious to find out. "That wasn't an invitation?"

Ah, definitely teasing.

Crowley took a sharp turn. Thankfully, there wasn't much traffic this time of night. He wasn't sure what day it was. Midweek, from the look of it. He'd elected to take a slightly longer route, following the roads that wound along the Thames.

"So," his brow knit. "All those times I've treated you to lunch. And the grand dinners." Crowley glanced down at the stereo, was about to turn it on but stopped at the last second, recalling the flayed serpent and the droning buzz of his television. He pushed them from his mind and carried on, "You're telling me none of those counted?"

Aziraphale shook his head with a smirk. “No- They didn’t count at all! Not as dates. We were just friends, back then.” He didn’t know what to call their relationship now, but he knew it was more than just friends. He knew what he wanted it to be, eventually.

He noticed Crowley’s subtle discomfort, and, offering a respite, released his hand. Aziraphale didn’t want to doubt himself now, but he could feel it building, buzzing angrily, somewhere deep down.

His face brightened, as it often did at the mere mention of delicious food, “The crepes were delicious though!” He recalled, with a subtle blush, the way Crowley had looked that day. Good Lord. He’d say it was the first time he noticed the Serpent’s beauty, but it would be a lie entirely. He was never uncertain of that fact. He’d been stealing glances and getting lost in those lemony eyes since the beginning.

The realization that Crowley had been courting him for, perhaps, six thousand years, made him feel somewhat foolish that it had taken him so long to come around. How had he not noticed? There was an element of guilt that began slithering its way into his consciousness. The way Crowley described them… they did indeed sound an awfully lot like dates.

After a few moments of silent pondering, he inquired with a furrowed brow, “Did you think those were dates?”

"Not even the _ice cream_?" Crowley ventured, glancing Aziraphale's way. He released his hand but the demon reached after it, recognizing the reason as his own unease, and threaded his fingers through Aziraphale's once more. He wasn't shy around Aziraphale. He hadn't been in years, and the angel'd put up with his awkwardness this long. He could stand a little more as Crowley figured out the basics of showing affection like a normal person.

"I don't remember the crepes," Crowley admitted, though doing so brought a smirk to his features. He'd been focused on other things - as always. He did remember, distinctly, how pleased Aziraphale'd looked when he finished them. He remembered he'd gotten strawberries. And he remembered the irony of a hungry revolution in full swing as they enjoyed a pleasant meal.

Perhaps fearing the potential for guilt to rear its ugly head, Crowley decided to stop playing stupid. "I knew they weren't," to you, he conveniently omitted. Which was a bit unhealthy, sure, but you took what you could get, and he'd always figured that compared to his fellow demons he was actually a fairly well-balanced individual. He'd known what he was getting himself into, continuing to follow Aziraphale, not doing the sane thing and cutting his losses early on. "They couldn't be, right?"

Aziraphale was completely shocked at this disclosure. He shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t remember the crepes? Oh, my. My word. Why, Crowley- They were _delightful!_ ”

He’d nearly been discorporated for those crepes. Crowley- always the rescuer, a glorious, gorgeous champion- whisking him away at just the right time. In Aziraphale’s opinion, food always tasted better after being rescued by a dark, tempting angel.

He squeezed Crowley’s hand slightly, reassured by the display of affection, a bit of doubt fading away from his mind. He was beaming, the memory of crepes and rescues and gorgeous dark saviors buzzing around his thoughts.

“No,” he shook his head, “They couldn’t be dates, not back then. We were on _opposite sides_ ,” he reminded him. Everything they did had to be a secret back then, not that, he mused, they were very good at hiding it.

“Nothing’s stopping us now, though,” he smiled. “They can be dates now. If, well… if you’d want that, too”. Aziraphale looked slightly uncomfortable at expressing his side of the affection, but he really did mean it.

He looked around, trying to spot anything familiar to narrow down their destination. “Where are you taking me, exactly?”

"I remember you liked the crepes," Crowley tried to justify himself. He wasn't sure why. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and took another turn, the vehicle slowing but not stopping just yet. He enjoyed food - quite a lot for an otherworldly being, actually. He was also easily distracted anytime a certain angel was around.

"Opposite sides," he echoed, distastefully. "I, for one, have always been a big fan of forbidden trysts. Would've been great fun. Bet nobody ever would've figured it out, either. Not any sooner than they figured out everything else, at least," his thumb brushed idly along Aziraphale's index finger, and Crowley scowled in contrast as he narrowed his eyes forward, trying to find a suitable place to park.

He met the angel with a (slight overdramatic) look of disbelief, still driving. "Oh, _this_ is a date," Crowley assured, emphatically. "From now on it's always a date. Every time. I don't want you playing confused about it later on." He had no qualms with making himself clear, now... well, now that he could. It hadn't even really occurred to him that they were talking about it openly, beyond his interest in finding out when Aziraphale'd started to regard him as a real option. "I don't care about sides or obligations or... or any of that rubbish. There aren't any left, anyway." Except there were. Fleetingly, he hoped Aziraphale still agreed, his hand tensing on the steering wheel because it was a ridiculous thought, of course he still agreed.

It was just new to Crowley, who'd lived with the obvious fact that this couldn't happen for so long and now, apparently, it was. To what degree he wasn't sure, but it was more than he'd had, and that was enough for him.

"Here," Crowley announced a moment later, as the car screeched to a halt a short distance from the boardwalk. Almost like he'd timed it to stop himself talking too much - he really did talk too much, sometimes. Slightly flustered, Crowley killed the engine and the lights. He turned to regard Aziraphale, seriously, and squeezed his hand.

"We're going to have to break a few rules." Everything in the area, along the boardwalk or otherwise, was very obviously closed. Crowley didn't give him time to protest, releasing his hand to exit the vehicle.

Aziraphale exited the Bentley. He had a wide grin, complete with nose wrinkle, a flush of pink in his cheeks, and a sparkle in his eye which shone like never before. Always a date, he thought to himself happily, from now on.

His heart had been aching for those words, nearly 80 years now, and he practically melted upon hearing them- so much so that he was willing to make room for some relatively harmless rule breaking.

Without a protest or peep, fully accepting and expecting to break rules with his demonic companion, he went around the Bentley and gently held onto Crowley’s arm. Aziraphale tried to be gentle with his grip, though the excitement made it difficult. Above all, he was afraid of scaring Crowley away.

He surveyed the area, noticing the stillness and expansiveness of the dark, silent buildings, towering almost ominously. It was new to him, but he was prepared for that, as Crowley rarely seemed to take him to the same place twice. However, he wasn’t prepared for how beautiful and tranquil it was. It was particularly delightful as it seemed to be just the two of them.

He listened to the gentle lapping of river water, enjoying its peaceful rhythm. The night air was cool and refreshing, and the darkness engulfing them brought him a sense of serenity and safety. After the macabre events of the evening, the fear and panic and tension, he needed the peaceful lull of something relaxing and human and ordinary.

He tried to hide the giddiness bubbling in his chest, but the smile plastered onto his soft cheeks was a dead giveaway. The angel tried not to speculate on what they were going to do, because he told himself it didn’t matter, so long as they did it together. Aziraphale was, for the second time today, enjoying the moment itself.

Crowley crooked his arm out slightly to give Aziraphale room to take it, the motion seemingly coming to him more naturally than the hand-holding had. When he caught sight of the other's face, he very nearly paused mid-step, but managed to catch himself in time to keep leading them toward his intended destination, unhurried.

For some reason, he hadn't expected Aziraphale to look so happy. He was used to seeing it in quick glimpses when he performed the odd miracle, or lend an unexpected hand. Sometimes he'd see it when he'd been away for a while and dropped by the bookshop out of the blue, but it was never anything like this. Crowley always indulged the angel -- whatever he wanted, because he was so used to thriving on those fleeting instances of appreciation he'd never bothered to imagine what it might be like to feel his actual adoration outright and it was almost overwhelming.

Almost.

It wasn't a long walk to the building, and Crowley spent most of it trying to compose himself into someone who wasn't going to blather on like an idiot the moment he opened his mouth. He didn't know why it was so difficult at present, but then he hadn't been earnestly content in quite a long time. So much that he didn't remember the feeling. Instead, he chalked it up to nerves that didn't exist.

Crowley came here often. Usually, for the sake of maintaining some level of discretion, he'd take the fire escape. Today, he led Aziraphale through the main entrance to the building, which unlatched for them with ease and locked again behind them as if it hadn't been disturbed at all. He scanned the area briefly - long enough to make sure there wasn't any active security and take care of any other precautions that were in place. Clearly, he'd done this innumerable times, and he tried to be subtle about it to minimize Aziraphale's discomfort.

They'd eventually find their way to the elevator, where Crowley nudged the button for the topmost floor. "I probably should've asked," he finally drawled, once the doors had closed behind them, "if you've been here before. Reminds me a bit of The Garden." The Garden, and the first time they'd met. No, Crowley hadn't had this planned for ages or anything (he'd planned it before this garden even existed; it'd since claimed the top spot on his list).

The doors opened, and a glass-domed rooftop garden spread out before them, all lush greenery and modern architecture, utterly serene for lack of visitors. The open glass ceiling let the night air in, and granted a near perfect view of the somewhat cloudy sky above them - once Crowley'd dealt with the immediate light pollution, of course.

Aziraphale was nervous to be prancing about breaking rules. Crowley was nonchalant, and suspiciously composed. So much so that Aziraphale began to wonder just how often he’d been here- and with whom.

“I’ve never been here, no,” he reassured his companion, stepping into the elevator with a growing knot of anxiety in his chest.

When the elevator doors opened, everything melted away- he saw it, The Garden.

It took Aziraphale’s breath away, as evidenced by the slight, sharp exhale he made when seeing it. There was nostalgia and wonder glimmering in his beautifully blue eyes.

“Oh, Crowley…” he whispered, looking up at the demon to meet his gaze. “It’s beautiful.” His Cherub-like features were soft and graceful, as if he were a painting that had come to life.

Aziraphale was truly overcome with emotion. It all came rushing into his heart at once, with no reprieve. Faith and hope, love and divinity, joy beyond measure. There was a hint- subtle, but present all the same- of tears forming at the corner of his eyes.

A pink glow bloomed onto his cheeks, similar to one reserved for lovers encompassed in the sweet torments of pleasure. The angel’s silvery crown of curls seemed to reflect the moonlight from above, and his skin almost appeared to be emanating a light all its own.

He grabbed Crowley’s suit jacket in his delicate hands, pulling him into a tender embrace. Hugging him fiercely, he whispered, “It is so beautiful”.

There was a tearing sound that seemed to come from everywhere, followed by a fluttering of feathers, as radiant, golden light was thrown onto the walls. The Garden shone, reflecting the light as if it were a large crystal.

His wings stretched before him, covering them both in a Heavenly embrace, holding Crowley close. There he held the dark angel for a moment, lingering, enjoying the intimacy.

Aziraphale, finally aware of the implications, felt the tingling sensation radiating up his spine, saw the feathers which, despite the circumstances, were thoroughly and pleasingly white. He folded his wings, no longer pulling Crowley close, and untangled their embrace. His cheeks burned red with unfathomable embarrassment.

“Oh, dear…” he breathed, beautiful pristine wings tucked behind himself as if it would hide them from sight. Shreds of fabric littered the ground around them. He winced, struggling to maintain eye contact, and braced himself for an onslaught of teasing laughter.

Crowley was in the process of removing his glasses as the elevator doors closed behind them, tucking them neatly into a coat pocket. His eyes, thankfully, had by now returned to their normal hue. While there was a certain weariness about them after the day's events, for the moment he looked altogether calm.

When Aziraphale turned to him, so tender and beautiful and perfect, Crowley couldn't help but extend a hand, brushing the backs of his knuckles over an exquisitely rounded cheekbone. He'd been doing his best to let Aziraphale lead where physical contact was concerned - it still made him nervous, like he might overwhelm him all at once and ruin the tenuous balance they'd found.

Apparently those nerves were unwarranted because not a moment later Aziraphale was tugging him close. Time seemed to stop for Crowley as the angel - his angel - wrapped him in his arms. He stiffened in the moment, having spent so long perfecting how to maintain the facade that allowed him to exist within Aziraphale's orbit, learning how not to react, to float in his periphery like oil on water, that he'd nearly forgotten how to do anything else.

Then, all at once, Crowley's form slackened, curved into Aziraphale's, weight resting into him as if it were the most natural thing in the universe. He heard the familiar tearing, lidded eyes fixing aside to watch as the angel's brilliant white wings burst forth and swept him nearer in that embrace. His own arm moved to coil snugly about Aziraphale in turn as the radiant light flickered across Crowley's eyes, and he seemed, for a moment, almost mesmerized by the sight.

They were still white.

The relief was plainly apparent on his features as he closed his eyes, turning his head so that lips could graze Aziraphale's temple, only managing a breath of a kiss before the other was pulling away. Crowley wanted to protest, to grab at him and drag him back, to ask him where the hell he was going.

He swallowed those wants, and opened his eyes to meet Aziraphale with a subtle grin. He took in the sight of him, backed by the garden and those exquisite wings. After all this time, he was still the same angel.

"Didn't you have a flaming sword?"

It was what Crowley had said or, perhaps, the way he had said it, but Aziraphale’s embarrassment melted away like vapor in the sun. The tension that had coiled in his body, bracing for laughter at his expense and lack of self control, fell away.

He grinned, beautiful and radiant, and Divine, light emanating off of his ethereal form like a lustrous beacon. He felt exposed. He felt loved. He felt free.

Aziraphale’s smile was intoxicating, brilliantly white, shining against the backdrop of pristine, ivory feathers. He was the muse of love, and art, and war alike- exuding an otherworldly presence that was as striking as it was fearsome.

The angel looked upon Crowley with pure love, such that it could be the deepest, strongest, most entangling love since Creation. He took the demon’s hands in his own affectionately, and stretched his wings wide in all their luminous glory.

Crowley had a way of exorcising his negative feelings and worries; this time, it was the embarrassment. The shame. With a wide, glowing smile, free from doubts and worries, he kissed Crowley’s hands sweetly.

“I gave it away,” he laughed musically, merriment unparalleled, “and you loved me for it”

Crowley couldn't stop looking. He didn't know where to look. He felt as if he could only hold Aziraphale's gaze for a few seconds at a time because he could feel the emotion there, could feel his vulnerability, his love, his Divinity. Surely, it wasn't meant for him. He knew it was, but his mind simply couldn't accept it, couldn't revel in that same freedom after so long denying himself.

Still, he tried. When Aziraphale moved close again Crowley breathed in deeply and forced himself to hold his gaze, the sharp-edged need that'd influenced nearly every aspect of his life for so long as he could remember finally dulling, just a bit.

His own hands clutched tightly at Aziraphale's for a moment, some of that unending want that was damn near doomed to boil over imbued in the touch. Just enough that he could steel himself, could bear some manner of rational thought. The breath he'd been holding fled him, and he felt grounded.

"I liked you for it. The rest came later."

A hand snaked around one of the angel's, took hold so that he could guide him further into the garden. It was immediately apparent why Crowley liked this place - the sharp lines of modern design intersecting with the almost overgrown quality of the plants, the quiet, the literal glass bubble isolating them from the rest of the world.

"Here you are looking all gloriously righteous," he muttered. "I feel under-dressed."

He allowed himself to be pulled into the garden. He admired everything, committing it to memory to be replayed later, when he was alone. He enjoyed Crowley’s hand tightly holding his own, and his thumb gently caressed the palm of the demon’s hand.

Aziraphale had a sweet, childlike innocence about him. He ran his free hand over many of the plants in the garden, chattering happily about their beauty, or odd shape, or large stature. He seemed to look at the world as if it were new, each day, despite seeing many of the same things for six thousand years.

He couldn’t stop smiling. There was a joy rooted in his soul, to be here, to be with him. He wished it could be just the two of them, forever. Aziraphale felt refreshed. He took a deep breath, letting the scent fill him with memories of The Garden, when things were much simpler.

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” he said, softly. “I didn’t mean to- you know. The wings. I don’t know what came over me”. With great effort, and a sound eerily similar to cracking bones, the wings slowly retreated until they had disappeared. A few white down feathers were scattered around them. There were two large slashes on his back, through all layers of his clothes.

“Thank you for bringing us here,” he whispered gently, “It was perfect.”

For the most part, Crowley let Aziraphale do the talking. Occasionally, he'd pipe in with an odd fact about some of the ones he was familiar with. Every so often, a plant might shudder faintly as Crowley strode past.

"It's alright," Crowley assured him with a shrug and a slight head shake. "Can't be helped sometimes, " He reached up with one hand, as Aziraphale's wings diminished, to smooth almost gingerly over the feathers. At the same time one of the few that'd scattered about them vanished before it hit the ground, and wound up in the demon's right pocket. Those slashes would come to mend, and gradually, the shreds of fabric left behind began to weave themselves out of the ether and back where they belonged on Aziraphale's person. It was a bit slower going than usual, with the fatigue of the long day - but Crowley didn't seem to mind.

When they were deep in the garden, Crowley angled his head back to peer up at the dark clouds overhead, sauntering blindly on under the assumption Aziraphale would lead him.

"I knew you'd like it," he sounded rather pleased with himself. "I come here all the time. Figured I should show you so you know where to look."

Aziraphale smiled warmly. “Thank you,” he whispered, as his skin knitted together, fabric following soon after. He hadn’t noticed the pocketed feather, though if he had, he would’ve been curious about it, but unlikely to care.

The new suit had been through a lot today, he mused. He wanted to reflect on the day’s events but there was a weariness which overcame him, and he decided to save the introspection for another time.

He blushed slightly, knowing full well that wing-pops didn’t happen often. In fact, he could count his accidental unfurling on one hand, including this one. That last time had been a very long, fervid evening in the late 1800s with a certain Mr. Wilde. He wondered, indulgently, if a very long, fervid evening with Crowley would result in a permanent unfurling.

Pushing these impure thoughts out of his mind, he focused on leading Crowley back out to the Bentley. They were both drained, he knew, and eager to rest. He prayed the night would be quiet and free from any disturbances, Hellish or otherwise.

“I loved it here,” he reaffirmed, before stepping onto the elevator with his companion, “It was magical- a _perfect_ first date! I couldn’t have imagined anything better.” There was a tinge of fatigue in his voice, though he tried to remain energetically cheerful.

He held Crowley’s hand, leading him outside. The night air chilled him, but it was welcome. Together, they began to walk back to the demon’s beloved car.

Thinking back, Crowley wasn't sure his wings had ever betrayed him - except the once, long ago when they'd bloomed, brilliant white scorched black for the first time.

He hadn't let it happen since. He wondered, vaguely, what it might take.

The demon slid his glasses back on as they made for the car, biting back his crooked grin into a more subtle curve.

The ride back to Mayfair was far quicker than the trip to the garden. Crowley took a more direct route and used what energy he had to spare pushing the Bentley to its limits - he couldn't resist, not in the haze of joyous satisfaction that'd overcome him. He didn't release Aziraphale's hand once along the way, and the awkwardness that'd initially sparked from the touch all but gone.

He was happy the date had gone well, sure, but that wasn't a surprise. He'd been dating Aziraphale, one-sidedly, for millennia - he knew what he liked. He was happy he'd been able to bring his angel such incomparable joy - there wasn't a feeling in the world like it. But it was all overshadowed by the immense relief he'd felt the moment he'd seen the other's wings.

It meant he didn't have to worry. Not about anything that'd transpired so far, at least, and so much of the anxiety had gone just like that.

He didn't voice any of this to Aziraphale. He didn't want him to know, just how much he worried and fretted. His recent drunken admittance had been enough for an eon, as far as he was concerned. Still, by Crowley standards, the demon was absolutely beaming.

When they reached the flat, Crowley'd retrieve Aziraphale's bag for him, making a mental note to clean up the mess at the door before they reached it. He didn't want any grim reminders spoiling the evening.

"You can have the bed if you'd like," he offered as they finally made their way inside. The interior looked untouched, he noted on a cursory glance - no sulfur in the air. It was good enough for him. Crowley screwed up his face a bit as he toed his shoes off in the doorway, looking to Aziraphale. "D'you even sleep?"

Aziraphale looked- and felt- tired. The events of the day built into a weariness that permeated his bones. If he were at the shop, he’d have a lovely cup of tea and a bowl (or two) of ice cream, all while soaking in the bath. It was his preferred method for unwinding and feeling refreshed. Unfortunately, the demonic stench suffocating his home would likely inhibit any relaxation that might occur.

He was fairly certain Crowley didn’t have a kettle or a bath. The demon lived a relatively Spartan lifestyle in comparison to the angel. The apartment wasn’t without comfort, however. A glass of wine and a hot shower would have to do.

“I’ve… well, I’ve never really slept before,” Aziraphale admitted. “I tried to do it, once, but nothing happened,” he shrugged. “Perhaps I wasn’t doing it correctly. My eyes were closed and everything.” He was certain that he’d been able to sleep, at most, four hours in the past six thousand years.

Aziraphale spent most of his nights poring over novels and scrolls, enjoying the Soho nightlife, and pampering himself with sweets. Sleep was never considered or attempted.

After pondering the options, and possibly daydreaming about them, he cleared his throat and chuckled lightly. “I don’t mind taking the couch. I know that you enjoy sleep, and I’ve heard it is most comfortably done on a bed.”

“I’ll-oh, probably just have a bottle of wine and a hot shower. Try to relax a little.” Glancing at the demonic books crammed on the shelf, he added, with a half smile, “Don’t think I’ll be doing much reading, though”.

Crowley looked mortified as the angel described his attempts at sleep. "You're really missing out, you know. You ought to try to figure it out eventually."

Crowley slid out of his jacket, sauntering toward the couch, and tossed it haphazardly onto the seatback. He grabbed the wine Aziraphale'd left earlier by the neck, uncorking it and taking a long swig straight from the bottle as he collapsed back onto the sofa. He was impressed by the taste, and his brows lofted to demonstrate as much as he squinted at the label through his glasses. He didn't even need to miracle it better.

"There's plenty of food in the fridge," decadent, expensive food that Crowley rarely touched, but which suited the aesthetic of the rest of the flat. He wasn't the biggest fan of sweets, so those were likely few and far between, but not impossible to find in the kitchen. The kettle, however, was a lost cause. "And I think the wine cabinet has a few you'd like. You can use the bath if you want," he gestured, lazily, toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. "Hell, you can use whatever you want," he settled for eventually. "Make yourself at home."

Crowley did have a very nice bath; it was mottled black marble, and took up a majority of the bathroom. It was over large, over elegant, and overly complicated with a few too many knobs that had very pleasant functions if one took the time to figure them out. He used it often, and it was one of the primary reasons he didn't have that hellish sulfuric stink. He'd even indulged in pleasantly soft towels, dark grey that bordered on black like most linens in the apartment.

Some of the books, Aziraphale might notice, didn't seem diabolical in nature. There were even a few space related ones that may or may not, at some time, have been situated on his bookshop's shelves.

Crowley took another swig from the bottle. "I wasn't planning on sleeping, but I'll keep out of your way." The demon's plan for the night involved sitting right where he was, eyes on the door, and waiting. "If you change your mind about the reading, office's that way," he pointed out the room with the literal throne for a desk chair. "Whole 'nother bookshelf in there."

First, and foremost, Aziraphale had a bath. The room was gorgeous, and spacious, and altogether entirely too much like Heaven for his tastes. Still, he was happy to have a bath at all. He had his overnight bag with him, which truthfully, was more like an infinite pit- it contained entirely too many things for a bag to humanly hold. Then again, Aziraphale was hardly human.

He filled the bath with hot water and bubble soap and liberally added scented oils. It was one of the more masculine scents he’d owned, smelling of spice and pine, and he delightedly sank into the tub, welcoming it. A sigh of half relaxation, half pleasure erupted from his lips. It had been an altogether too long, and altogether too exciting, day.

One of the wine bottles from Crowley’s collection suspiciously disappeared, winked out of existence entirely, and reappeared next to the bathtub. Aziraphale didn’t bother with a glass. He took a long, delicious swig, letting the tastefully dry flavors please his taste buds. It wasn’t the sort of wine that he’d usually drink, but, when in Rome…

After a worryingly long time in the bath, and deciding entirely that it was just the right amount of it- he wrapped himself in one of Crowley’s agreeably thick, luxurious bath towels. He sat at the edge of the tub as the water drained, tipping back wine merrily. His face was pink from the heat of the bath and the swirl of the wine.

For one of the only times in his immortal life, in the presence of company, he donned casual. Well, not casual-casual of course, but casual for him. After lotioning and spritzing cologne, and swiping deodorant and filing his nails, and shaving his face, and a number of other personal grooming tasks (he has _standards_ , you know), he got around to the clothes. He fumbled with the buttons on his light blue shirt, and slipped into a pair of dark slacks. His socks and underclothes matched his trousers, and his slippers had magically become a pale, powdery blue to rival his button-up. No bow tie. No vest. No overcoat. Casual.

Wine bottle in hand, bag slung around his shoulder, he shuffled into Crowley’s office to inspect his book collection and anything else of interest. He deeply drank a mouthful of wine and rolled his eyes as soon as he saw it- throne for a king, in a library for a pauper.

"You're going to give me whiplash with these wardrobe changes, angel," Crowley called after him - rather more drunkenly that he might've earlier - thoroughly taken aback by the change. He'd never seen him in anything of the sort. The demon had only caught a fleeting glimpse - he couldn't decide if he liked it yet (he did). It took all of his willpower to stay true to his word and stay put on the couch, but he managed.

The office was minimal, as everything else in the apartment - perhaps even more so for the lack of plants. Crowley did have a fairly substantial bookshelf within; the collection didn't rival Aziraphale's, but it did the average human, and he'd actually read them all. Interestingly, most of them were scientific - geology, biology, quite a few about the universe as a whole. Many focused on geography - likely resources for his work, on the rare occasion he'd bothered doing any. The rest of the collection consisted of theology, a rather vast span of various religious philosophy over the centuries. The top shelf was reserved for books Aziraphale had loaned him (the ones he'd like too much to return) - all of which looked rather less pristine from use.

On the lowest shelf there was a box, containing a neatly-kept assortment of old answering machine tapes. Most of them consisted solely of Aziraphale. One consisted of Hastur, taking up an entire tape when he'd failed to understand what, exactly, an answering machine was. Crowley found it too hilarious to throw away, and thought he might taunt him with it one day.

Aziraphale hungrily eyed the neatly labeled tapes, mouth upturned into a wry smile. There was a tape which looked particularly worn, the label frayed and thumbed, and he slipped it into his bag for later research.

He ran a hand over the books, surprised to see a good number of well written works, and enjoyed the feeling of their worn, ratty spines. His heart fluttered when he saw his books on the top shelf, a place all to their own- Crowley being the only person to whom he’d willingly give a book. He didn’t mind their worn, well-read jackets; simply, he was happy to introduce to each other his two most beloved things.

Finally he meandered to kitchen, looking for something to satiate his sweet tooth. To his surprise, there were all manners of foods in the fridge, though most of them savory. He found a small box of chocolate, and thought it an excellent pairing to the dry wine. He took another swig from the bottle, which was still full- a trick which he’d learned from the demon- and walked back into the living room.

He felt much better. Though he was still weary- emotionally, he presumed- it was easier for his mouth to settle into a comfortable smile. He plopped onto the couch next to his companion.

The kitchen was equally barren, though there were at least a few plants to give it some manner of life. Some of them were suspiciously less vibrant than those in the living room - but only some. It really did seem as if, at least on a subconscious level, Crowley may have been emulating Heaven - or parts of it - albeit with a bit more personality. The monochromatic tones, the deep red and gold hues, persisted throughout every room, as did the generally overly-ornate style.

The demon was still right where Aziraphale had left him. Crowley'd been lying there, for the most part unmoving, head tucked against an armrest so that he could angle his gaze toward the door with the least possible amount of effort. One leg was bent at the knee, the other draped lazily off the sofa, as was the arm supporting the wine bottle.

At some point he'd taken to twirling the feather he'd stolen earlier between two fingers, staring at it from beneath a furrowed brow. Clearly, a master at entertaining himself. It was no wonder he liked sleep so much. Far off in thought as he may have been, Crowley heard the quiet shuffle of Aziraphale's slippers approaching the living room, and the feather was gone.

"Fancy meeting you here," he crooned, finally able to take a good look at Aziraphale's new wardrobe through the dark tint of his glasses. He did like it, he decided immediately. "What's an angel like you doing in a..." his eyes narrowed in thought. "a...," and he raised the bottle, as if toasting, "... I'll come back to that later." Crowley sounded pleasantly, not overly drunk. It wasn't clear whether or not he was working his way there. Personally, his aim was to banish the image of the gored snake from his thoughts, so however far off that was.

"You look nice."

“Oh, thank you,” grinned Aziraphale, smoothing his shirt out of habit, blue of his eyes glittering happily. He toasted his own bottle of wine, taking a sip, his eyes never leaving the demon. He wanted to drink in the sight of him, hold onto the memory, never letting it go.

“Crowley, you haven’t moved at all. Were you sleeping? You can take the bed, you know, I’m quite fine out here.” He suspected Crowley wanted to keep an eye out for anything suspicious, which given the circumstances, was entirely reasonable.

Aziraphale smiled sweetly, and reached over to gently squeeze his shoulder. He spoke gently, trying to soothe his companion’s worries, “I can take over guard duty, Crowley”.

"I wasn't sleeping!" he assured, only a half-tone away from pure petulance. "I was busy," he continued, using the wine bottle to indicate the door.

If he could bristle, he probably would - not in actual anger, but in that way he so often did for no reason at all when anyone so much as suggested he do anything. "You shouldn't have to worry about it." As far as Crowley was concerned, he didn't feel as if it should be anything Aziraphale even had to think about. "I know how to handle the idiots down there. Not particularly bright, are they? I mean, even the management, look at how long I've been up here doing... who even knows!" he gestured broadly with his free hand.

"I'll bet you," he continued, pausing for another swig of wine, "I'll bet you they thought I'd come rushing down there the minute they did something to you. Probably got a vat of holy water right at the front door, lost souls be damned - well, not even damned anymore, would they be? Just obliterated. How stupid do they think I am?" The thought had most definitely not crossed Crowley's mind. Not even once. Ever.

He reached to pinch the bridge of his nose, quieting after the outburst.

"You should try the bed, you know. It's the best. Heated sheets, blackout curtains, the lot of it. Like a different dimension."

Clearly, he wasn't moving from the couch.

Aziraphale felt something strange, in the pit of his stomach. A feeling he couldn’t exactly place, though it felt oddly similar to a union of worry and frustration. The demon was incredibly stubborn, and his paranoia was worse than Aziraphale thought.

“Crowley…” he whispered, doing his best not to instigate the situation further. “I think perhaps you ought to get some rest.”

He took a long swig from the bottle, planning his next words wisely. The alcohol began to spread through his limbs, warm and numbing, and it made him feel somewhat addled. He put the bottle down heavily on the table.

“They can’t come here. Not tonight,” he asserted. He was staring at Crowley intensely, unusually serious. Not a smile to be found- not on his lips, nor in his eyes.

“If they do, if they lay a hand on you, if they hurt you, I will smite them,” he promised, his voice somewhat gruff, the words reverberating more aggressively than he’d intended. He wasn’t the type of angel to make idle threats.

Aziraphale felt slightly uncomfortable talking about killing demons, in the presence of his demon. He wanted to change the subject, talk about anything else, but Crowley’s needs came above his reservations.

Crowley's stomach dropped - or, more appropriately, he swore he could feel it crawling in on itself. He wanted to pretend he didn't know why.

He didn't know how to explain to Aziraphale in any logical sort of way, because it wasn't logical, not really. He'd entire gallons of holy water ready to dispatch at a moment's notice if he needed to. He wouldn't hesitate to torch any of the Angels who'd stood ready to execute Aziraphale. It would be completely hypocritical of him to do anything but agree. Crowley knew this.

Crowley also knew the denizens of Hell. He knew that, now, they were predominately awful people, who were awfully angry at him for dooming them to carry on living out eternity in the prison that made them that way. He also knew that some of them, prior to being locked in that soul-crushing cage, had been alright. Most of them were shit - he didn't have any qualms with the notion of dooming them oblivion - but how could Aziraphale possibly know which? And how could he sit here, and try to explain to Aziraphale that not all of them deserved it?

He thought back to Ligur, melting away to nothing, and Hastur's horrified cries.

Then he thought of the serpent. He thought of Aziraphale, wild-eyed in his doorway, locking eyes with him over a bucket of holy water and the fear he'd seen painted on the angel's face. He thought of what he'd gained, and what he stood to lose - what they wanted to take from him. He thought of Aziraphale’s unending certainty that the War could end, and how he hadn't for a moment believed him. He thought of Gabriel. Crowley sat up and drank deeply. Then, he rested his forehead to Aziraphale's shoulder. It was a brief moment, a quiet display of gratitude - despite all of his doubts - because he knew that in reality there wasn't any other choice. He was safe, protected. So was his angel.

The rest of them would have to figure it out for themselves.


	4. Who's That Knocking?

"Alright," Crowley conceded, finally. His lips pressed faintly to the side of Aziraphale's jaw as he lifted his head, and then he moved to rise to his feet. "You'll wake me if there's anything, yeah?" one last ask over his shoulder as he meandered toward the bedroom, bottle in hand.

Aziraphale felt his heart flutter at the minor displays of affection, despite them being brief, and he found himself desperately wanting more. Aziraphale’s hand instinctively reached out for the demon as he stood up, though a moment too late, and he swiped empty air.

“I’ll wake you, if there’s anything,” he promised with a weary smile, watching his companion saunter to the bedroom, half tempted to follow him.

Aziraphale let out a long, indulgent sigh, rubbing his temples with one hand. There was nothing less favorable to him than guard duty, and historically, he wasn’t very good at it. But the promise of it had quelled his companion’s anxieties, and perhaps, Crowley would awaken in a lighter mood. 

He sat on the couch, half in the dark, watching the door silently. He dared to take a nibble of chocolate or a sip of wine from time to time, but he was otherwise still. He’d do his duty, glum as it may be, even if he could be watching his demon sleep instead. Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Demon’s Door. 

He supposed he should be grateful that Crowley trusted him, and tried to bloom contentment from that thought. All the same, he watched the uninteresting door, as it did what doors so often do- nothing.

If Crowley'd noticed, he would've stopped in an instant, rounded back on the sofa and curled up right there in Aziraphale's lap. For whatever reason, he assumed the other wanted his peace - and he'd had a sneaking suspicion that the angel wouldn't trust him to get any sleeping done if he stayed out there, anyway.

The moment the door clicked shut behind Crowley - he didn't bother to lock it (one could always hope) - he tossed his head back and proceeded to drain what remained in the bottle. One of the keys, to sleeping as an immortal ethere--occult being, was getting fantastically drunk beforehand. It also happened to be one of Crowley's favorite parts.

His bedroom felt a little more lived-in than the rest of the apartment. More earnestly him. His giant bed resembled something closer to a nest for its size, and took up a majority of the space. One wall was entirely glass, covered by a thick, deep-red curtain which no light could penetrate - whether due to its quality or Crowley's interference it was difficult to tell. The overhead lights themselves were warmer, not so perpetually sterile as those in the rest of the flat, and quite a bit dimmer even at their brightest.

Crowley slouched his way to his closet, which was positively giant - took his time disrobing and manually placing each item of clothing back on its hanger. He cursed under his breath when he realized he'd left his jacket, but figured he'd collect it tomorrow or.. whenever he woke up next. Probably whenever Aziraphale got bored enough to retrieve him.

Knowing it was a very real possibility, the demon decided it best to put something back on before he settled into bed - a soft black tank-top, at the very least. If Aziraphale saw him he'd have to live with the sight of his boxer-briefs, because Crowley drew the line at sleeping in pants for anyone.

He nearly forgot to take off his glasses, remembering only when he went to retrieve the wine bottle again, and he tossed them carelessly onto one of two elaborately-carved dressers in the room. After a few more drinks - and a few healthy bouts of irritable, restless pacing, Crowley finally collapsed into the mass of grey and black silk and down-stuffed bedding. He adjusted the heated mattress pad to the highest setting, made himself comfortable in an awkward sprawl of limbs, and miracled the room into pitch-blackness. It took a lot longer than usual, but eventually, guided by his drunken stupor, he drifted into a deep and, as always, dreamless slumber.

Hours. It had been hours but it felt like weeks. Aziraphale, having more than a mild case of restlessness, began pacing the apartment. Checking the perimeter, he reasoned to himself, though it was a complete lie. He was already completely and fantastically bored. The chocolates were gone and the wine, having been drinking it all night, began to taste sickly sour. 

After walking round the apartment for what felt like miles, he sat back down on the couch with a loud sigh, throwing his head back. This is what love was all about, he reminded himself solemnly. Sacrifice. 

He lasted perhaps an hour longer before deciding that several hours of sleep for someone who needed none, ought to be sufficient. He took a moment to silently meditate, mostly upon love and the joys it could bring, in an attempt to cool his irritation. Not that he blamed Crowley. It was mostly the door. In the hours he’d spent staring at it, he memorized all its flaws, and imagined some new ones which he promptly despised.

Once he felt composed enough to at least be neutral, he gently tip toed into Crowley’s room, closing the door softly behind himself. Aziraphale slipped under the blankets and was surprised at how warm and comfortable it was. 

He spent some time staring at the demon while he slept. A reward, he told himself, for guard duty. It didn’t seem too unreasonable to want one, not after spending all night with the door instead of his beloved.

He slid his arms around the demon, holding him close to his chest, and tried to still his beating heart. Gently he kissed the crown of fiery red locks, inhaling the scent of him, enjoying a moment of peaceful stillness.

For someone who didn't need sleep at all, Crowley might've been a professional. He didn't stir when the bedroom door opened - didn't stir when Aziraphale's weight sank onto the mattress.

He'd been curled onto his side, one knee bent up at an odd angle and the other leg outstretched, twisted into an awkward position that looked anything but comfortable. A light flush graced his usually colorless features, from roasting in the heat as long as he'd been, and at some point he'd flung an arm out from beneath the blankets, as if it were too warm even for him.

When Aziraphale's arms worked their way around him, there was finally a reaction - a very slight reaction. The demon's brow furrowed in momentary confusion as he, still more than half-asleep, tried to deduce exactly what was happening, weighing whether or not it was something that required his conscious attention. When the angel nestled close, Crowley registered his scent and immediately relaxed again on the tail of a quiet, contented sigh.

"Mmn.. not yet," he mumbled nonsensically, coiling against him, slowly wrapping Aziraphale into a complicated tangle of limbs. There wasn't anything overly sensual about it - he was too sleepy for that, just intent in the half-aware part of his mind that the angel was there and he didn't want him to leave.

Aziraphale, who was, not one moment ago, determined to wake up his companion, smiled to himself and happily let him rest. He lightly caressed his back with soft, gentle hands, periodically brushing a tender kiss on his hair. 

Nothing mattered, nothing in the world. It seemed foolish that anything, other than this, mattered at all. He pulled Crowley closer, although there was hardly any space separating them to begin with, feeling his warmth and reveling in his distinctly non-sulfuric scent. 

Aziraphale’s heart thumped loudly, doing some manner of back flip in his chest, and he exhaled a shaky breath in an attempt to calm it. He slowly, but acutely, became aware of the demon’s half clothed body, relaxed, close, pressed up against him. Oh dear.

It was useless to push it out of mind, and there’d be no forgetting it. This was the sort of memory that tormented in the dark of night, that would weave into his soul, make him desperate with lust. He’d instead taken to distracting himself, by becoming particularly interested in the bedroom around him, as if this would somehow evade feeling particularly warm.

The bedroom was the only room in the apartment that contained any actual clutter - a number of accessories and pointless knick-knacks covering the various surfaces in the room. It was still clean, by all means - but also very apparent that, if he was at the flat at all, this was where he spent most of his time. Used candles were scattered in decorative holders here and there, half-read books abandoned between the nightstand and the bed. There was even a well-worn, leather bound notebook stuffed away with them, brimming with papers he'd added in along the way, as if everything he could've done in his expansive office happened by way of a lazy scrawl from his bed. And wine bottles... quite a few wine bottles, ones he'd particularly liked and kept to refill at his leisure.

Plenty for Aziraphale to look at, in other words. Crowley hadn't bothered to hide anything.

The relief was almost tangible when Crowley realized he didn't have to wake up that very instant. His arm crept loosely over Aziraphale, lithe fingers brushing the base of his neck and stilling there. He was dimly aware of the other's hands on his back, granting them what little focus he had left as he began to drift off again, oblivious to the mild crisis occurring beside him. "'s nice," a low murmur, the barest effort to seem present.

Aziraphale was, for once, thankful that Crowley was asleep. He wasn’t sure how much self control he’d be able to uphold, had the demon been returning his affections. There was a creeping, growing sensation of longing, and the more time that passed, the worse it became. 

He made mental notes of the types of wine bottles scattered about, to better choose one to Crowley’s liking. He tried to focus on the book titles, but, either by virtue of darkness or inability to concentrate, he wasn’t able to make out many of the words. 

Eventually he couldn’t stand a moment longer, their bodies pressing together, the feeling of Crowley’s breath on his neck, the bare smooth-skinned legs tempting him from around the blanket. He extracted himself from the demon’s embrace, breath slow and deep, and escaped the bedroom. 

He wandered into the office, red faced and panting, feeling incredibly warm. To soothe his impure thoughts, he found a better, true distraction: the cassettes. He chose one, well worn though not as used as the one he’d slipped into his bag, and placed it gently onto the machine. With a trembling hand, he pushed play, and hoped to God it would be enough to soothe the storm brewing in his soul.

Crowley groaned in the sudden absence of Aziraphale's warmth, making a vague attempt to tighten his hold on him - but he was too out of it to put forth any real effort. Defeated, he went limp in the mess of blankets, and promptly fell back to sleep.

The particular tape Aziraphale had chosen was older, back from when Crowley first acquired the now-antique machine. The first message that played actually began with Crowley's voice: _No, it's not like a regular phone call, you don't -_ he'd been laughing - _I can't hear it until I play it back - look_ , and then, Aziraphale, protesting being forced to use this strange new technology Crowley was thrusting on him as he always did, but eventually relenting.

The next message: Aziraphale, detailing a particularly good restaurant that was famous for its lemon tart.

The next, after a brief static interlude, as if another message had been deleted: Aziraphale, apparently grumpy at Crowley and patiently explaining why one shouldn't curse when they prayed - 

The next: Aziraphale, grumpier, having realized Crowley was doing it on purpose to get a rise out of him -

A longer pause. More deleted messages. 

And then, more Aziraphale. Talking about his day. Thanking him for some small kindness. Admonishing him for some vastly evil deed. There was a particularly good one from the time Crowley'd gone around the shop, discreetly reorganizing titles until the first letters prominently spelt lewd words on the shelves.

Aziraphale’s heart was full to bursting. All this time, he thought, all this love. He should have seized it, should have held onto it fiercely, should have never given it an opportunity to get away. 

He could hear it in these old tapes, plain as day, ringing in their voices and their laughter. Knew it by the tapes being saved to begin with, meticulously kept for so many years, filed away like memories. They were so in love. He’d been so blinded by his allegiances, by Heaven, that he almost lost it all. 

Aziraphale found himself with tears in his eyes. He heart ached in a way like never before and the flashes of love were so intense he felt he’d be discorporated by them. He needed him, needed to be in his arms, needed to look into his eyes, to kiss his lips.

He made his way back to bed, this time slipping into the other side, facing the demon. He wrapped an arm around Crowley tightly, using his free hand to trace along his jaw line, and down the side of his neck, lingering on his collarbone. He kissed his cheek softly, lips lingering, trembling.

Not enough time had passed for Crowley to fall back into the full depths of slumber; when Aziraphale returned, wrapped that arm around him, he loosed a mild sound of approval. "Hmn. Where'd you go?"

Once more, the demon proceeded to wind his way around him, limbs draping across Aziraphale's and tightening into a firmer hold, preemptive in case he decided to extract himself again. The kiss bid his eyes open, just enough to register his angel beside him in the pitch-black room.

"Finally got tired of the door?" he wasn't quite awake enough for full-on teasing yet, which made the question seem almost ludicrous in its earnestness. His head tilted, pressing into Aziraphale's touch before it traveled downward, earning a quiet but pleased sigh. If he had to wake up, he'd elect to do it this way every time.

Aziraphale kissed him again, on his cheek, though closer to his neck than before. He inhaled his scent, soaked up the warmth of the bed, enjoyed the entanglement of their limbs.

“Good morning,” he all but purred, “I trust you slept well”. Again, another, a light brush of his lips, already down to the jaw line. He wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t worrying. Wasn’t caring.

“I hate guard duty,” he whispered, and planted another kiss, just below the demon’s jaw line. His hands began to wander, minds of their own, not used to being unleashed.

“I hate the door.” Again, a kiss, delicate, deliberate, hardly more than a graze. He couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to stop himself, drawn to the side of his neck, unable to resist the tantalizing sweetness.

“I hate waiting for you to wake up.” Overcome with passion and desire, he nipped, slightly sucking on the tender, sensitive skin where Crowley’s neck met his throat.

Crowley was slow to catch on.

He assumed at first that this was Aziraphale being clever - clever and fiendishly cruel, using his own brand of temptation to encourage him back from the comfort of sleep. The purr was a nice touch, caused him to stir, palm splaying flat between the angel's shoulder blades.

Then he registered Aziraphale's wandering hands, warm, exploring, and almost automatically his form arched beneath them, slow, practically basking in the touch. His head tilted back permissively as a low purr welled in his throat, a reaction to the kiss. Gradually, he began to realize that this was more than an attempt at waking him up.

He felt teeth, and the soft heat of Aziraphale's tongue, and he angled his head in such a way that the skin pulled taut beneath his touch, bared to him. He didn't realize it when his own fingers crooked slightly against the angel's back, nails biting softly through the fabric of his shirt, encouraging.

"I've made you do a lot of things you hate, haven't I," by now, the demon had caught up to the situation. From his tone, all soft and breath and low, he was more than pleased with it, and the words melted against the skin just beneath Aziraphale's ear. "And all in one night," his tongue flit out, languidly caressing that hollow as Crowley began to shift, slinking against him without breaking contact until half his body weight'd sunk onto the angel. He peered down at him through hazy yellow eyes. One arm was wedged beneath Aziraphale now, but the other hand lifted between them, and Crowley set about tracing his lower lip with the pad of his thumb, gaze following the digit's path hungrily. His eyes flit up to Aziraphale's. "How can I make it up to you?"

Crowley knew this was a tight-rope act. That he'd have to pay attention, mind the signals. But if Aziraphale was asking, he wasn't going to deny him.

Aziraphale released a sigh of pleasure, feeling the nails digging in his back, the breath on his neck. His face was flushed with want, and it glimmered in his eyes. It was an ache that had overtaken him, hypnotized him. It swirled tempestuously in his thoughts, coloring everything with desire, rooting itself in his soul.

He whimpered slightly, as the fingers caressed along his lips, and he pressed his body closer. He pressed his lips against the demon’s, not bothering to answer, not able to answer. His kiss was prolonged, savoring the moment, never wanting to let it go.

He was lost in the passion, the wickedness, the lust, and it caused a hunger that was insatiable. His body screamed with ache and need. His kisses became frantic, fervent, moans of passion escaping his lips.

His hand settled on Crowley’s lower back, firmly drawing him nearer, begging for his closeness. He felt the world melting away, trapping them in a bubble of delirious yearning that he wanted to hold onto forever.

Nothing had ever felt so good, so right. Six thousand years of pressure, building to a point of no return.

Crowley was trying to contain himself. To _restrain_ himself. His hand pressed into the mattress beside Aziraphale's head and his fingers dug into the bedding with a white knuckled grip -- and still, the kiss, initially gentle, soft, descended gradually into a slow dance of tongue and teeth and hunger, and the demon growled low in his throat when he heard his angel's softer moans.

Whatever self control Crowley had left fled him all at once. His fingers returned to Aziraphale's hair, coiled tightly into the strands as he worried his lower lip between his teeth, and he used that hold to pull his head to one side - not rough, but not overly gentle either. He kissed the corner of his mouth. His chin. The upper curve a cheekbone before he was claiming the angel's earlobe in a sharper bite, soothed thereafter by a brief swipe of his tongue. With lips nestled warmly against his ear, Crowley loosed a soft murmur, quiet and dark and covetous and certain, "you're mine, angel."

Then he was sucking a bruise into the hollow of his ear. Another just beneath it, trailing down to address every inch of the skin that was exposed to him with momentary affection. His tongue lapped at the dip in his collarbone as Crowley drew the arm free from beneath him, brought that hand to the front of his shirt where he took hold, tore his top button free by means of a sharp, unceremonious tug. The second followed. The third. He didn't persist further yet, hand pressing under the loosened fabric, splayed fingers notched against his ribs as naturally as stripes in fur, the barest hint of nails only a whispered threat to the soft skin beneath them. "Do you hear me?"

The bruises were dark purple against Aziraphale’s pale, silken skin, and he uttered an ecstatic moan as the demon overtook him. The pleasure overwhelmed him, bewitched him, controlled him. It seared away all of his thoughts until his mind was blank, empty. There was nothing left, save a bestial hunger, and he allowed it consume him. 

Crowley’s hands digging in his ribs radiated with delightful, sensual electricity. Aziraphale’s breathing was quick and ragged, breathy escapes and moans of want describing his fervor more thoroughly than words ever could.

“Forever,” he groaned, his voice raspy with desire, the enjoyment precipitously overtaking him, his sanity teetering on the edge. His eyes were glittering and wild with longing. “Forever.”

Aziraphale gripped the demon with eager hands, and swung their bodies together, so that Crowley was atop of him. His hands wandered a bit lower now, one clawing at the small of his back, the other resting greedily at the top, back of his slim thigh.

His mouth teased the skin around his companion’s collarbone, vehemently determined to taste every luscious inch of exposed skin, biting its way back up to the demon’s mouth, tongue searching for salvation.

Forever.

That single word pierced through him, lightning, ground in his heart and arced out into the far reaches of his soul.

_Forever._

A sharp breath fled his lungs as thousands of years worth of moments, of stolen glances and fleeting touches, of spoken and unspoken words were suddenly validated, freed from the persistent need to pretend they were ever anything, everything _but_ what he intended them to be.

A shadow bloomed over them in the blackness, darker, even, than the room about them, as if what minuscule light existed in the space was drawn in and immediately extinguished. Crowley was there above the angel, wings thrown wide behind him in such a way they seemed to bleed into the rest of the space, made him appear physically tethered to the darkness.

Ignoring (or oblivious to) the presence of his wings, the demon was wholly focused on Aziraphale beneath him, on every soft sound and desperate breath, the look in those eyes he'd only ever been able to imagine and even then, he hadn't imagined it well. Imagination couldn't compare. He stared down at him for a moment, breathless.

Crowley could never give him salvation, but he had better things to offer.

He claimed Aziraphale's lips in a crushing kiss, shifting languidly against him as bidden, still attentive even now, still abiding his every want. He moved to straddle his waist, to rest atop him in earnest.

He was met with a white-hot pain.

It was a pain he'd felt only once before, at the edge of a blade, and he recognized it instantly as it flooded through him, as if it existed for no other reason than to sear his very core.

Everything else stopped.

In less than an instant, with a sharp and furious outcry, Crowley jolted to the very edge of the bed where he perched, wild-eyed and feral, wings flung defensively before him.

A scorched stripe decorated his calf, and the scent of burnt flesh tainted the air.

"What in the unholy _fuck_ is that?" he snarled, eyes locked to the offending object in the center of his bed.

Aziraphale felt an ache like no other, a bittersweet, frenzied pain that would only be satisfied- could only be satisfied- by their coupling, breathless and frantic and wanting. His nails clawed into the demon exasperatedly, hands itching for more, desperate to fall into their love, to get lost in their union. 

Crowley’s wings burst forth, eliciting from Aziraphale a hoarse, throaty moan. They were dark and beautiful and glorious, and Aziraphale wanted him like never before. He was fascinated, seduced by their haunting beauty, enticed into falling over the edge of oblivion. Beguiled by the sinful, tempting lust, which grew greater by the moment, he convinced himself that it was now a need.

Aziraphale’s hips gently rocked back and forth reflexively, eager and expectant, begging for damnation. He wanted to hold onto the love and desire, drown in it, was wild and desperate for another, more intimate touch.

The demon shifted, his weight settling on top of Aziraphale, who was breathless and frantic, lost in the heat, drowning in the moment which bloomed forth impetuous temptations and six thousand years of unspoken wants. 

And then, it was over. 

Disoriented and confused, he propped himself on his elbows and gazed at the demon, breathing heavily, thoroughly anguished as the ripening pleasure was ripped from his grasp.

His eyes danced along the demon’s lithe frame, perfect and unrestrained, until they rested on a darkened, red stripe. He smelled the flesh in the air. He quickly followed the demon’s gaze and, there it was, perched atop the sheets as if it’d belonged there, as if it were always there.

“The sword,” he spoke, his voice gruff from blunted pleasure and now tinged with fear. He sprang out of bed, grabbing the object hastily, as if its mere presence would exercise the demon.

“Crowley,” he whispered, more cognizant and aware of his surroundings. “It’s the sword”.

"Why is it _here_ ," the question verged on a growl, the barest edge of a hiss creeping into the words, and when Aziraphale lifted the blade Crowley immediately stood, backing into the furthest corner he could. He wasn't used to navigating the space with the hulking wings out and there was a clatter as he bumped into the dresser behind him, cursing.

The gold had overcome the whites of his eyes entirely, and his furious gaze was focused solely on the sword. Crowley looked truly wrathful - wrath befitting a very real demon - as the reality of the situation began to sink in. Not only the implication, but what had just been taken from him, ripped from his grasp the moment he'd finally found purchase. 

" _Fuck_. Get it the fuck out of here, Aziraphale!" It was a desperate demand, laced with fear and anger; Crowley could barely sort out which currently presided because the pain was still smoldering, fanning outward from the fresh wound.

Aziraphale's heart sank, hearing the fear and panic in the demon's voice. The wound disturbed him, though only in part because of the worry he felt for Crowley's body. Simply put, he feared for Crowley's soul. The weapon was made from holy light, and its power over the demon's flesh cemented Aziraphale's knowledge of his companion's damnation. It was a fact that Aziraphale often found himself forgetting, or perhaps ignoring, even when faced with wings blacker than death himself. 

Aziraphale knew he'd be the one to heal the wound, and, in fact, only he could. But he dared not approach the demon, finding a recoil and aversion to the anger and wrath that he'd so rarely witnessed. He saw Crowley, in this moment, as one sees a wild, cornered animal. As if the dark angel was ready to rip him limb from limb, and focused on survival and survival only. 

Wordlessly, he turned and left the bedroom, trepidation rising in his heart, giving the demon space to compose himself, to release the anger and rage and pain. Not knowing where to keep the weapon, and in no state to think about it too hard, slipped the sword into his bag.

He sat on the couch, miracling a decanter of whiskey as strong as his tolerance would allow. After taking a deep, stiff drink, Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to smooth it. With trembling fingers, he rebuttoned his shirt, taking a long, stabilizing breath.

Chest heaving, Crowley watched as Aziraphale left the room. He waited until the door had closed behind him, and waited a moment more.

In a fit of rage he'd not known in centuries, Crowley overturned the dresser. It fell with an expensive-sounding crash, wine bottles and various decorative items scattering in pieces across the floor.

"Is that it then, you _blithering fucking idiots_?! Great work - Great _fucking_ work you're doing up there. I commend it! Really! You lot should get a _fucking medal_ for your eternal commitment to disrupting our lives! Certainly there aren't more _important_ issues in the universe, nothing else you could _possibly_ fathom attending to - oh, _right_ , because you don't give a **damn** about the universe, not when there are people minding their own fucking business--"

The tirade went on for some time. Eventually, as the rage subsided, Crowley's voice began to wane; clearer thoughts reminded him that no-one was listening. He concluded on a rather less invested note than he'd begun, and fell quiet.

No-one was listening, he recalled dimly, except for Aziraphale - if he was even still there. Which was wonderful! Just the sort of mental breakdown he wanted him to witness.

Crowley sat back on the edge of the bed, wincing as he examined the burn. He already knew there was nothing he could do for it, and he dreaded the thought of looking Aziraphale in the face. So he did nothing. Just collapsed back onto the bed, a limp pile of feathers and limbs, and willed the dresser back into place.

Aziraphale tried not to listen to the demon's meltdown out of respect, but, as people tend to do when facing destruction or accidents, couldn't help himself. 

His heart ached, among other things, and he didn't know how to mend the situation. It would've been easier had he been the one to injure the demon, but there was no comfort or solace he could offer in this instance. Heaven despised them and sought their destruction. This filled him with a paralyzing fear and it tormented his thoughts. There was nothing Aziraphale could do to save Crowley, not from the Heavens (or, he pondered morosely, from God. Not that he'd ever stop praying for it). 

When the apartment was silent for some time, Aziraphale slowly made his way to the bedroom. He was afraid of intruding, and briefly wondered if it would be best for him to return to the bookshop. He decided to find his courage- though admittedly he didn't have very much of it. 

He knocked at the bedroom door, but said nothing.

"You don't have to knock, angel," Crowley stated, far more sedate now the adrenaline had passed.

The demon was lying on his back, eyes trained blankly on the ceiling. The lights were on, though dim, and he was still bracketed by his wings, not caring enough in the moment to retract them.

He wasn't sure what, through the span of eternity thus far, he'd done to earn this brand of punishment. He'd made his peace with being inherently evil, that was all well and good - but he knew others far worse than him who didn't get half as much attention. Hell's anger, he understood - Heaven's not so much. Crowley didn't care about Hell. He didn't care about Heaven. He didn't care about God or the Devil; he just wanted to be left alone. 

Well, not quite alone.

Aziraphale walked quietly into the room, still nervous of aggravating Crowley further, or perhaps, of restarting the process. He was half drunk on whiskey but he'd needed it to deal with the day's events. 

Aziraphale approached, maintaining a friendly distance. He was still half expecting to be screamed at, or to have some object thrown at him; as he was currently the only available target for Heaven's misdeed. 

Wordlessly, he inspected the wound, gently handling the demon's leg. It was raw and blistery red, appearing to have been the full length of the knife. Nasty business. They were lucky it hadn't been worse, if they still considered themselves lucky at all. 

He closed his eyes and layed his hands on the wound, and they emanated a faint golden aura. It would feel rather like a rush of cool water, a bubbling spring that chilled the stinging heat of Heavenly wrath. It took great effort to heal holy wounds, though this one was relatively minor. He'd hopefully be able to complete it in one session. 

Aziraphale had a light beading of sweat forming upon his brow after a few minutes of channeling the Divine, and his breathing became more labored. The edges of the wound began to fade, replaced at first by a honeyed glow until darkening to Crowley's regular skin color. After several minutes more, the inner most portion had faded from warm golden light to the demon's natural tone.

Aziraphale looked ragged, spending an enormous amount of power, even for the small size of the wound. The color was drained from his face, and was nearly gasping for breath. He half collapsed next to Crowley, and used a handkerchief to dab the perspiration from his face and neck.

Crowley didn't look to Aziraphale straight away, almost ashamed to. He was sure he'd gone on similar tangents in front of him in the past - but they weren't usually directed at Heaven. While he'd meant every word, he couldn't forget Aziraphale's thousands of years of loyal service.

And now he was here. Crowley winced soundlessly when the angel first touched his leg, but didn't withdraw, squeezing his eyes shut and expecting more pain. "Oh," he murmured with a sigh once the cooling touch registered, relaxing all at once. He should've known better than to think the other would do anything that might hurt him without warning. His eyes slid open after a while, and he looked down to observe what Aziraphale was doing.

It felt a bit wrong, he thought, seeing that golden light doing its work on him. As if it might make the image somehow less ridiculous, his wings gradually retracted - one less reminder of his true nature in the room with them. His eyes shifted back to the ceiling, gold-tinged sclera beginning to shrink back into their more human configuration.

"Thanks," came the equally quiet but earnest gratitude when Aziraphale had finished. Crowley felt incredibly awkward, and incredibly exposed, as if the other'd witnessed something that was meant to be a secret between them. Maybe it was. He always went to great lengths to mask his less desirable (read: more demonic) features.

"I'm sorry. If I overreacted," he ventured, after a moment. He wasn't sure the other even wanted to speak to him, at present.

The awkward air of spontaneous, unprepared intimacy lingered. He, too, felt vulnerable. The events which had transpired earlier replayed on the back of his eyelids without pause; frenzied lust, bodies nearly melting together, the black wings stretching into the shadows. The lay on hands was, in a different kind of way, particularly intimate for him. He had poured Divinity into the demon, whose body and soul seemed to devour it hungrily like an endless pit, leaving Aziraphale empty and cold. 

“No, Crowley, don’t apologize,” he whispered weakly, his eyes still closed, “You didn’t overreact. They did.”

He let out a shaky sigh, exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Aziraphale’s voice was gruff, almost pained, “They could’ve killed you, for goodness sake. And with my own sword.”

He felt trapped by Heaven, who seemed to despise him for his unholy alliance (despite thousands and thousands of devoted years he’d spent in their service), and Hell, who seemed to hate him by virtue of his very existence. The only comfort left keeping his heart full of hope was his love and reverence for God. Although the circumstances were less than ideal, through God’s will and God’s will alone, he was able to be here on Earth. Here with his beloved.

Crowley knew the effort it took. While he'd never seen the act performed on any of the fallen - which he could only imagine would take an overwhelming amount of strength - he'd witnessed it before, long ago, in the midst of a battle he was barely fighting. He felt undeserving of such effort, but knew Aziraphale would argue the point.

Silence passed between them for some time before Crowley shifted. His movements were slow, granting the other more than enough time to withdraw from him if he chose. He aimed to curl up against his side - no ulterior motives, just an arm slung across his chest, a quiet moment of closeness he wouldn't dare progress further. He was terrified, still - not for his sake, but for Aziraphale's - if they hadn't yet before, Heaven had certainly taken note of his sins.

"They didn't kill me," he offered, perhaps the only silver lining he could find to emphasize. "They couldn't. They don't have the brain to manage it between them." He was quiet for another long moment, thoughtful. "Who would've had it? The sword, I mean."

Aziraphale pulled the demon close. His body felt cold, practically ice, as it was recovering from the intensity of healing. He wanted the comfort that Crowley provided, and he needed the warmth. He let out a small sigh of relief as Crowley’s heat rushed over him. Instantly, the color began to slowly return to his pallid skin. 

He chuckled at the joke, which seemed particularly funny given their successful six thousand year Arrangement, and the light laughter retained its usual sweet sounding melody, brightening the mood if only for a moment.

“I didn’t think anyone would have the sword,” he answered, almost lazily. “It’s supposed to be important”. Still, he pondered the question further. He wasn’t able to picture Gabriel doing something like this. The man was just a soldier, and he robotically followed orders to the point of stupidity. Besides, Heaven didn’t often seek to annoy or otherwise harmlessly harass. Heaven’s orders were often violent, preemptive, and sought vengeance. He supposed it would be a personal vendetta. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was not nameless; Heaven had a lot of angels who’d have an ax to grind.

When Crowley noted the other's temperature, he immediately went about dragging the blankets up around him. The warmer was still on, set high as always, and most of the linens still reflected its heat. Once he was satisfied that Aziraphale was sufficiently wrapped up, he settled back against him, pulling him into a protective embrace.

The angel's laughter actually earned the ghost of a smile.

"Mm. You don't have any ideas. No-one with a particular grudge... don't suppose anyone mentioned I cut them off in traffic at some point?" the questions seemed innocent enough. It'd make sense for anyone to want to know who had it out for them. Crowley had a few ideas of his own - though most any personal grudges those in Heaven held against him would have to be older than he remembered. Aside from the whole cancelling Doomsday bit, of course.

Aziraphale allowed himself to be wrapped up, a smile arising on his soft lips. It was a small but loving gesture from the demon, and he cherished those sorts of things. The blankets were luxuriously warm and the emptiness in his soul was waning. 

He contemplated their potential adversaries. “I haven’t heard much mention of you in Heaven, quite honestly. I doubt there’s more than the usual ‘Fallen angel, mortal enemy’ grudge.” It was a sizeable grudge nonetheless.

His thoughts flitted to being cornered, intimidated; Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon surrounding him. The fear and panic he felt, and the sorrow- it was after his fight with Crowley.

“Some angels cornered me, before Armageddon. Uriel called you my boyfriend,” he said it with a casual air, but thought it a very important detail. “Then Sandalphon punched me in the stomach. Michael was with them too.”

After a few moments, his face twisted in a cute, overly pure expression, he asked innocently, "Do you think it is related?”

Crowley couldn't help but shift again after a moment, eyes narrowing at a rumpled corner of blanket that hadn't set quite right. He reached to tuck it in.

"Well, that's good to know," the demon muttered truthfully. The less noticed he was, the better - he still never understood how he seemed to be so well-known in Hell, for lack of titles or anything else. Even with the memos. He had a sneaking suspicion his level of infamy had escalated after recent events.

At Aziraphale's next words, he couldn't help but tense. While he managed to keep the anger from displaying plainly on his features, he could feel it spark back to life, and quietly begin to spread. His tone remained purely casual.

"Uriel was always fairly perceptive. Never understood how Sandalphon didn't wind up a Duke of Hell - he'd've been popular downstairs," Crowley's brows knit slightly. "Weird they sent Michael, though. What were they trying to do? When was this?" There was a beat of mild offense at the realization. "You never told me."

He smiled sweetly, watching Crowley fuss with the blankets that, in his opinion, were perfectly fine and comfortable. 

He nodded his head dramatically, convinced that Sandalphon could, indeed, be a Duke of Hell. “You know,” he whispered, as if he’d gotten hold of juicy, privileged gossip, “Sandalphon was at Sodom and Gomorrah. He was smiting more than anyone else.” He added, with a nod. “Turned people into salt. Smiling all the while”. 

Aziraphale disliked Sandalphon, which was an opinion he’d formed upon first meeting.

He tried to dodge the question- not wanting to discuss, or even remember, that fight. _When I’m up in the stars, I won’t even think of you!_ Aziraphale knew it was his fault, but it hurt all the same.

“Ah, it was… well, it was before Armageddon,” his head bobbled, “Didn’t seem as important as everything else”.

Both of those were technically true.

"That's because Sandalphon's a shit. Always been a shit," Crowley's lips curled back into a mild grimace. "Never understood the point of that whole mess. Murder for the sake of murder, wasn't it?" Not that the demon understood the point of most Heavenly directives. "You think the Almighty'll ever do layoffs? Seems a few people need to go, and there're positions open downstairs..." he didn't expect an answer to the question, knowing Aziraphale didn't appreciate his grim sense of humor in regard to their all-powerful and wonderful Lord.

He heaved a sigh, squinting his eyes thoughtfully. From Aziraphale's avoidance, he could hazard a guess at when it happened, and didn't push for either of their sake. Still. "Alright. But what did they want? Trying to drag you back up in time for the 'glorious battle'?" his eye-roll was equally apparent in his voice.

Those three, Crowley figured, were as good a place to start as any. He didn't feel threatened by Sandalphon in the slightest. Uriel was smarter, but nothing he couldn't handle; if anything, they might offer some good insight. Michael would be the issue. Michael, he was fairly sure, could probably obliterate him with a snap of the fingers - unless he prepared something special - which he could, given some time.

Aziraphale frowned, disliking Almighty jokes, although on some level he did agree with the Sandalphon and the smiting bits. _May you be forgiven_ , he prayed silently. He was constantly worried about the demon’s soul, even if its fate had been decided eons ago.

 _You’re better off without him_ , the passerby had said. At no point did Aziraphale agree. He tried his best to push it out of mind and was grateful that Crowley was willing to let it go. Neither of them wanted to bring it up, and that was fine by him. It was a painful memory that he was all too happy to leave out in the cold. 

“They told me to choose sides,” he admitted. “They wanted me to command a platoon in the war.” Then he spoke to the Metatron and discorporated, only to found Crowley crying into a bottle of liquor. His heart ached. 

He’d made so many foolish mistakes, hurt Crowley in the worst ways, and jeopardized their love for selfish reasons and childish alliances. He hoped he could make it up somehow, heal the wounds he’d caused, but he worried there would always be a scar tarnishing their relationship.

Crowley didn't remember those moments fondly - not yet. They were too fresh in his mind; living forever meant taking more time to get over things, especially for someone as stubborn as the demon. He didn't hate them either. Not because they hadn't hurt - how could they not? But because he knew that, one way or another, Aziraphale hadn't denied him for the sake of it - he'd denied him because, until the very end, he'd held out hope that there was something left. Crowley hadn't believed it. Angels versus demons, he supposed. In the end, Aziraphale had been right. If it became a scar, it'd be the sort he looked back on fondly - one day, once it'd healed.

"Mm. You did in the last one, didn't you?" It was more curious than it was accusatory. "Used to try to imagine it; I couldn't until I saw you yesterday." Crowley tilted his head until Aziraphale's was tucked neatly beneath his chin, the fingers of one hand roving absentmindedly along his arm. "Glad you decided not to, this time."

Crowley's thoughts were still spiraling off in numerous trajectories. There was Aziraphale here with him, the threat of Hell on his doorstep. And here, on his, Heaven's ominous warning. Who would it benefit him to deal with first? Aziraphale could handle demons, he figured. Most of them. Crowley'd only ever be evenly matched, and that was only due to the edge his imagination gave him. Heaven, however... most of them were even bigger idiots. Easier to outsmart, and he actually had functional means of engaging them - albeit at greater risk. To him, the choice was obvious. He didn't even try to convince himself it wasn't personal.

Apropos of nothing, Crowley asked, "Did mobiles ever catch on upstairs?"

Aziraphale looked slightly wounded, although he was sure Crowley hadn’t intended it in a negative way. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that... I thought something dreadful had happened to you.”

He never wanted to be without Crowley, not again. 

Although he’d commanded a platoon in the Great War, it wasn’t enjoyable. He didn’t feel honorable as a soldier, not like many of the other angels did, and was very decidedly against doing it again. 

When the demon asked him about mobiles, he eyed him suspiciously. He felt a flare of anger, quick and hot, rise into his cheeks. It happened so suddenly, so easily. 

“Crowley, I trust you aren’t planning anything ridiculous,” he snapped, testily. Always so quick to risk his life, he thought gloomily.

"You're mistaken, angel," Crowley practically crooned, squeezing his arm briefly. "I liked it. Which, admittedly, may be a conflict of interest on my part," he snorted. "You don't have to worry about Hell. I'm sure you could decimate most of their forces in an instant," which he sounded a bit less jovial about - but Aziraphale's safety was still more important than anything else.

"I'm not planning anything ridiculous!" Crowley protested with a scowl the angel couldn't see. "I just thought it might be nice to catch up - old friends, Uriel and I." They weren't. But they'd spoken once or twice, and he'd sworn Uriel had understood a joke once. Or was that Michael? It'd been a long time. "Heaven doesn't want anything with me, anyway. They want their soldier back; I'm no-one! It's Hell out for my blood, but I've got you, so it's all fine. Smite them left and right, couldn't you?"

The angel wasn’t completely convinced, but he did take a liking to this new type of flattery, smirking as the demon flirtatiously squeezed his arm. He was satisfied at Crowley’s new lack of fear; happy that Crowley didn’t feel the need to surround himself with holy water any longer. Or at least, he assumed so.

“If Heaven only wanted a soldier, why did they drop the flaming sword onto your bed? And while we were- well,” his face turned bright red, instantaneous, already remembering the taste of delicious, fervent passion. “While we were busy”. 

Despite feeling half-reassured, he added in a worried, irritated voice, “Crowley. You can’t go risking your life.” The words seemed oddly familiar as they tumbled out of his mouth. “You know I can’t live without you.”

Crowley'd been trying not to consider the why of the sword. Part of him was convinced it had been a last offering, a last opportunity for Aziraphale to make the righteous choice. He pushed the thought from his mind.

"Doubt you can still be a good soldier if you're in bed with the enemy. We're ruining their investment. They've always been a little.. " he waved a hand. "Uptight? They probably see it as the final frontier and all." He tried to maintain the nonchalance - he'd capped that rage, neatly sealed it for later use when he had the chance to take vengeance for having that moment sullied, stolen when he'd waited so long. "I'd imagine they thought they might appeal to your loyalty one last time, you know. Hoped you'd strike me down on the spot," Crowley paused, suddenly, and narrowed his eyes.

"Who's stupid enough to think you'd kill me?" Not Uriel or Michael, he didn't think. But he had a sneaking suspicion who it might be.

Aziraphale's last statement caught Crowley slightly off guard, and he shifted uncomfortably. "If we're ever going to be free of it," he tried to choose his words carefully, "we're going to have to do something. But you should know by now; I wouldn't leave you." He hadn't even when Aziraphale'd pushed him away; he wasn't about to start, now the angel was here in his arms.

“They wanted me to kill you?” he gasped, thoroughly shocked. “Kill? You?”, each statement was more dramatic than the last, “In your bed? While we were…??”

And, for the first time in his long, immortal life, Aziraphale began questioning things. 

“Why would Heaven want me to kill you? After all this time? After we saved the world together?” His face had a mixture of grief and pain, with a dash of rage, and it reflected sorrowfully in his wide, blue eyes. “How is that the right thing to do? How is it good at all?” 

“Why would Heaven try to make me do that?” His voice was heavy with anguish and resentment. 

He bit his lower lip nervously, and wondered where, exactly, God had gone.

Crowley was prepared to laugh. Then Aziraphale went on, and he realized he wasn't joking. Sometimes, the demon forgot what it was like to have faith. Glad he'd caught himself in time, his fingers stilled for a moment on the angel's arm as he considered - carefully - how to respond.

"Well," he began, thoughtfully. "Heaven didn't want to save the world. Honestly, Aziraphale, I'm not sure what Heaven wanted from a war." Crowley made a point of referring to Heaven, and not God, because he knew there was a distinction for the angel.

"Whatever it was, though, I think they still want it. You and I put an end to it - it makes sense that they'd try to trim the fat and get someone useful as you back on board, doesn't it?" He paused for a moment, wincing at his own explanation. It sounded too much like defending them.

As the demon went on, he sounded less and less flippant - tone changing very gradually. "As far as they're concerned, I'd imagine once they found out you were consorting with me, a few of them probably looked back at how long it's been. Probably figured I'd tempted you down all sorts of dark paths.." he trailed off, not bothering to finish the thought. He didn't like that explanation either. After a few moments, he spoke again - straightforward.

"Context doesn't matter. Someone wanted you to make your choice. They're all about choice, aren't they? They were nice enough to give you a second chance." He couldn't stop the sarcasm creeping into his tone. Apologetic, Crowley pressed a fleeting kiss to the top of Aziraphale's head. "Surely you didn't forget the special guest at my execution?" Then he withdrew, crossing the room and slipping out, off to retrieve a new bottle of wine.

Aziraphale listened to the demon’s attempt at reassurance. He could tell by his companion’s choice of language that it was all entirely for his own sake. This knowledge didn’t diminish its effect. He pondered the demon’s words with a furrowed brow- which promptly disappeared when Crowley kissed the top of his head. Still, the thoughts and doubts remained. What was God’s role in all of this? He wanted to believe in goodness and light and love, but he felt so rejected, abandoned, and empty. He prayed silently, wishing for anything- a sign, a reassurance that God was, indeed, there for him.

He felt confused and disoriented, and a familiar sensation of perhaps doing the wrong thing. Aziraphale hardly knew what was wrong anymore, though, and he’d been rather close to tasting the forbidden fruit. Tucked away, the fuzzy white down began to darken, rendering the angel’s single plucked feather peppered with light grey. The color was subtle, but it was there all the same.

“ _Michael_ ,” he said, bitterly, recalling book clubs. Ever since that conversation, Aziraphale decided that he completely and earnestly despised Michael. It wasn’t as if he’d liked Michael to begin with, but the combination of jealousy and the threat on his boyfriend’s life soured what little affections he held. The thought of Michael dropping the sword into their warm bed was rage inducing.

As Crowley left the room, Aziraphale took a minute to recap the events of the day, which seemed numerous and overwhelming. He kept going back to their earlier moment. A moment which Heaven so effortlessly plucked from his grasp. It was maddening. He felt obsessed with it. He still wanted it. Despite this, he knew the moment was gone, and he wouldn’t be ready, not in the same way as before.

Crowley'd wanted to be honest. He'd wanted to tell Aziraphale outright that Heaven didn't care. That they didn't give a fuck about either of them beyond punishing them for preserving the Earth. For saving lives. Millions of them. He didn't understand it - he never had. He'd understood the point of the Garden, but not why _he'd_ been the one offering knowledge. He hadn't understood the flood. He hadn't understood when he'd been sent to tempt the carpenter, watched him hoisted on the cross. He didn't understand through millenia of war and acts of God how anyone could see good in Heaven at all.

At least Hell had a reason.

He uncorked the wine bottle with a quiet pop, drank deeply from it as he made his way back to the bedroom. Along the way, he paused to pick up the jacket he'd left on the sofa the night prior. Rumpled now, he noted with a scowl, and gave it a little shake that resulted in what looked to be the perfect dry-clean. He seemed satisfied enough, until he noted the feather that'd fluttered from the pocket onto the floor. He reached down to grab that too, not noticing anything amiss at first. Another swig of wine, a few more steps. He moved to slip the feather back into one of the coat pockets, not keen on Aziraphale seeing it. He stopped. He stared.

His blood ran cold.

He could swear his heart had stopped beating in his chest, could swear all the oxygen'd fled the room.

"Aziraphale," he called from the living room. He slipped the jacket over his shoulders, the dark jeans already having willed their way onto his form. "I'm thinking takeout. You want anything?"


	5. A Hand in Your Darkness

Aziraphale lay there in the mess of blankets, absorbing the warmth, basking in it as a snake on a hot stone. The heat sank into his soul and rejuvenated his spirits. He caressed his lips absentmindedly, recalling the path of Crowley’s thumb, aching for it all over again. 

His thoughts drifted from Heaven and Hell, to theological questions, to the racy memories created today (and surely, racy memories that had yet to be made). He took a deep, soothing breath, attempting to calm his nerves. The demon’s hurt and anguish and pain, fleeing from the bed like a scurrying animal- it filled him with a raw, primal fury. This memory haunted him. The seething rage it created coiled into the pit of his stomach.

Aziraphale brightened as he heard Crowley’s voice. He arose from the pleasant warmth of the blankets, feeling much more refreshed after the lay on hands, and made his way to the demon. He felt weariness deep in his bones, and craved comfort. Despite this, his skin had returned to its proper lustrous hue, and his vitality had returned. 

He grabbed the demon’s hand gently, not wanting him to be too far away for too long. “Take out?” he cocked his head to one side, pondering the options, “Why don’t we go out instead? I could rather do with a lovely meal after all of the day’s nonsense.”

Crowley heard Aziraphale coming and winced, the feather promptly vanishing from his hold. He willed his features into a more neutral expression just before the angel entered the room, and canted his head slightly as he spoke. "I thought you might be tired," he offered with a shrug.

It was a struggle at present to so much as keep his breathing level. Somehow, he managed - but he didn't have his glasses yet, and Aziraphale'd taken his hand, so he couldn't just bypass him to retrieve them. The nearest pair was in the bedroom; he thought it might be suspicious if he miracle them into place before they were on their way out the door.

"What're you in the mood for?" Crowley narrowed his eyes and took a glance at his watch, looking just for the sake of avoiding Aziraphale's gaze. Brilliant as he was at maintaining his facade, he wasn't certain it would hold up under close scrutiny without those damn glasses. It wasn't too late in the day yet - brunch was still feasible. He couldn't grasp at the thought for more than a few seconds before his mind was racing back to the catastrophe in his pocket.

"We could still make it for breakfast." Aziraphale was the closest thing Crowley knew to good in the world.

"Or waste a bit of time until sushi's open." If he wasn't good enough, what hope did any of them have?

"It's been a while since I've done sushi." Aziraphale should've never even had to set foot in Hell for Crowley's sake. He couldn't be Damned. He couldn't be.

They would ruin him. They would take him and they would ruin him. God had forgotten her fallen, spared no forgiveness. No hope. How could Aziraphale live in a place like that? Not all of Hell knew the angel was one half of the reason their chance at freedom had been ripped away, but they would the moment he became accessible. The fallen spared no forgiveness, either. He could see the shit-eating grin on Lord Beelzebub's face already.

"I'm fine with anything, really." And it was all his fault. He gave the angel's hand a gentle squeeze.

“Oh, well, let’s have sushi then!” Aziraphale beamed, and returned the squeeze to Crowley’s hand happily. He practically steered them toward the couch. He knew perfectly well how to waste time, up to 6000 years of it, actually. They could handle a few minutes until the restaurant opened. 

His worries were itching at the back of his mind and he longed for solitude. He needed to sort the doubts out, reaffirm his faith. _Perhaps I ought to go to church_ , he thought curiously. He really didn’t enjoy going to church. It felt presumptuous and hypocritical. All the stained glass and tapestries, statues inspired by him, paintings of the man they themselves put on the cross. Maybe a synagogue then…

Despite disliking, and sometimes downright hating, church sermons, he could rather do with a nice, long Catholic confession. It might unload some of his guilt, even if it changed nothing else. Wasn’t that what all the humans used it for anyway? 

He also could do with a stiff drink. The flashbacks of their relationship changing deeds still engulfed him with their tantalizing, overwhelming pleasure. He wanted to wallow- just a bit- in the sorrow and frustration of having that perfect moment ripped away. 

There were plenty of churches and bars in Soho.

“Do you think it is safe for me to go to the bookshop, later today?” he inquired, his intonation retaining its usual musical harmony, as he plopped himself on the couch. Crowley didn’t need to know about where else he’d want to go, did he? Not like demons were going to follow him into a church. Besides one. He smiled to himself sweetly, love and adoration briefly twinkling in his eyes.

Aziraphale steered them toward the couch and Crowley followed on autopilot, setting his the bottle of wine down on the table as he sat. He wanted to take another drink - wanted to down the whole bottle, but it wasn't a good look, he didn't think.

The demon's mobile appeared in his hand. He ignored the slew of angry notifications (he hadn't so much as looked at it since Armageddon), instead opening up a browser and typing into the search bar with one hand. "There's a new one, I think. Can't remember where I saw it," his gaze remained firmly affixed to the screen.

"I'm sure it'll be fine, yeah. I can drop you after lunch," there was none of the usual protest, no hint of the paranoia that seemed to plague him at every turn. "You can call me if anything's off," well, maybe not _no_ hint of the paranoia. Still scrolling, on the search for a new sushi place that hadn't existed before he made the excuse, he continued, "You've got plans later, then?" Even through the cloud of panic Crowley wanted to establish a vague idea of Aziraphale's schedule for the day - or at least know when he wouldn't be there to watch over the bookshop, so the demon could lurk in his stead.

“A new place? Hm.” he asked, innocently enough, but there was a growing suspicion that something was off. Aziraphale’s reaction was much more reserved than if there had been a new place. There wasn’t a new place, though. He’d know about it. Aziraphale knew all of the restaurants in the area, especially sushi restaurants, and had dined at all of them at least once.

Particularly incriminating was Crowley’s lack of argument. Even when they were both in agreement, they still managed to find something to bicker about. 

“No, no” he smiled, forcing a cheeriness in his voice that was a bit too thick, “No plans. Just… mucking about, you know.” A moment of silence passed, which always seemed longer than it actually was whilst attempting to lie, and he shifted uncomfortably. 

“Might try to clean the bookshop.” He was significantly worse than Crowley at hiding things. His things were likely to be far more innocent, but they were being hidden all the same- and, in fact, there was a growing ridiculousness at Aziraphale trying to hide them at all. “Sulfur.”

He stood up and stated, somewhat awkwardly, “Well, I… I ought to grab my things then”, and walked away, into the bedroom to retrieve his bag. The problem was, Aziraphale’s bag was already on his person.

"You've already got your things, angel. You're a bad liar," Crowley called after him, without hesitation and without looking up from his phone. The demon wasn't actually worried about whatever activities the angel might've been planning. He'd learned throughout their time together that sometimes the angel thought he was getting up to all sorts of incriminating trouble when, in reality, most everything he did was entirely innocent.

Most. 

Crowley didn't often dwell on the things that weren't.

"We could go to the place you like. I can't recall the one I was thinking of. Might've been somewhere else," he used the opportunity, while Aziraphale was out of the room, to summon his glasses, and slipped them into place. Then he rose and followed after the angel, phone slid back into a pocket once he'd found what he was looking for. Crowley leaned in the bedroom doorway, peering in at him. "Incense for the sulfur," he reminded, gently, though he hadn't believed him for half a second.

His pulse was still thrumming harder than it ought to be. It was a miracle unto itself he was able to maintain any sort of composure, let alone do it well - but he managed all sorts of miracles in Aziraphale's presence; what was one more?

Upon hearing the demon’s words, Aziraphale abruptly stopped in the hallway, halfway to the bedroom, and hung his head. His eyes briefly lingered on his bag and he sneered at it, as if it were the bag’s fault somehow. He continued into the bedroom simply to finish what we started, although there was no real need to do so.

He chuckled nervously at the demon when he had appeared in the doorway, head nodding slightly, and he mumbled, “Incense. Quite right.” He had plenty of incense in the shop, but he never used it. He hated the way it made the books smell, and the heavy scents always reminded him entirely too much of Heaven. It was a necessary sacrifice in this case. He, of course, preferred incense to sulfur.

He took a moment to don a vest and bowtie, not wanting to leave the house dressed so ‘casual’. While straightening the tie for a moment, he suggested, “We’ll be off then, hm?” Aziraphale didn’t take any unusual notice of the glasses, which often seemed to be glued to his companion’s face.

Crowley watched him, unmoving until the angel seemed to be done. He wanted to approach. Wanted to steal a kiss, just to appreciate the fact he could. Unfortunately, the demon had been thrust right back into uncertainty over the repercussions - even of something so small and, seemingly, innocent.

He fucking hated it. For a moment, he bristled internally. One more wave of anger to repress, to layer on top of all the other injustices of the past few days, nestled tightly-packed beneath the welling panic at the forefront of his thoughts.

He turned from the doorway, making his way to the entrance of the flat, where he paused to toe on his shoes. Then Crowley straightened, and held an expectant hand out to Aziraphale, fingers splayed open to interlace with his. "I only ask because I could watch the shop awhile, if you'll be away." As if he wouldn't be doing it anyway, once he finished whatever he had planned. Half-planned. Was currently-in-the-process-of-planning... it'd get there.

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened at the unexpected affection, his smile suddenly wide and beaming, and he readily accepted the demon’s hand. No matter the circumstances, this is something he’d always appreciate; without Armageddon, they’d still be bumbling along their separate ways, on separate sides, wishing for nothing more than to walk together like this. 

He was grateful for the ineffability of it all, allowing the gratitude and love swell his heart, and warm his soul. He’d already started regretting the questions from earlier; not about Heaven, of course. About God. His faith wasn’t easily shaken, but it was easily returned.

“Oh,” he said softly, somewhat taken aback at the frankness of his companion’s concern for him. He felt foolish for even trying to dodge the questions about his plans in the first place. It was Crowley asking. He could tell him anything. At least, almost anything.

“Well, I… I thought I might go to church,” he admitted, expecting a jeer but knowing it was all in good faith. Aziraphale lightly smiled at the juxtaposition of his next activity, and his seemingly oppositional needs, “and then, perhaps…“ He giggled sweetly, feeling ridiculous, such a pure, innocent soul, “Go to the bar.”

For once, Crowley didn't make any comment about the church. At least he wasn't going to - but he realized within a second it'd be strange if he didn't, and he made a point of grimacing visibly at the mention. Better than not acknowledging it, he thought - but church probably couldn't be a detriment to Aziraphale right now, ridiculous as the notion was to Crowley. 

Then again, maybe it wasn't.

The door latched shut behind them as they left the flat, the quiet thunk of the door latching echoing behind them, decisive. "The bar?" So, that was why the secrecy. The revelation ruffled the veil of anxiety and stress weighing so heavy on his shoulders; of course he wasn't up to anything insidious. Just mildly indulgent. Crowley huffed, a breath that might've been a laugh were he anyone else.

"That's downright scandalous," it wasn't. Crowley's tone suggested he knew as much. "I'm sure it'll be a lovely time." While the bookshop and the restaurant were both easily in walking distance, the demon still made for the Bentley. "I've a few things to take care of, but I'll stop by the shop after. See if I can't help with the smell. Nobody should have to come back to that drunk."

On any other occasion, Crowley would've taken Aziraphale's bag for him. Today he didn't, because the sting of the sword was still fresh in his mind and if the angel hadn't left, it stood to reason there was only one place it could be. He wasn't getting near it. He made his way straight to the driver's seat, the engine bursting to life the moment the demon sat.

Aziraphale clung the bag to himself, not wanting the sword to leave his sight. He gazed at his companion while he drove, face ripened with longing and devotion. He adored the demon, and it practically gushed out of his eyes. 

He nodded, enamored, grateful to accept any assistance from Crowley, and have an excuse for him to pop in. Not that he needed anymore excuses for it. They were together now, at least… he was pretty sure they were together. It had never been explicitly stated, but the demon’s actions were protective and possessive enough that Aziraphale was fairly certain. 

When they arrived at the sushi restaurant, he walked inside happily, shining with delight. They, of course, greeted him warmly, and promptly gave them a table for two.

“Aziraphaleさん、またお会いできて嬉しいです。新しいスーツ、私は気付いた - とてもハンサム！これはあなたが私たちに言った男ですか？” smiled the server warmly.

Aziraphale blushed slightly, and responded cheerfully, “こんにちは親愛なる友人。はい、彼は確かに同じ男です。いつものようにしてください。そして、私は彼が一杯のアルコールを入れたブラックコーヒーを飲むと思います。”

The server simply nodded with a coy smile and retreated into the kitchen. He reappeared some moments later with their drinks- a bubble tea with whipped cream and strawberries for Aziraphale, and a black coffee for Crowley, and a container of sake for the two of them.

Crowley had never been overly talkative in the quieter moments between them. He'd always been the type to stew, to explode in an eventual outburst of rambling that'd last ten minutes or so and then return to his thoughts, as if he needed time to prepare the next batch. He didn't mind the quiet; he'd never understood people who couldn't bask in silence. Maybe it was another side-effect of Hell - too much constant yelling and noise to appreciate the absence of it.

Still, he was present, in his grip on Aziraphale's hand, the idle movements of his thumb against the back. His brow knit, expressive even in whatever internal monologue he was running through at the moment.

When they approached the restaurant, Crowley reached past Aziraphale to pull the door open for him, purposely doing so in such a way that had him orbiting just a bit closer. Old habits.

He looked around curiously when they entered. He always felt a bit awkward in these small places, like he didn't quite fit in them - all gangling and and over-expressive - which was funny, considering his relatively unimpressive stature. More side-effects. He didn't bother racking his brain for any knowledge of Japanese - it was already too busy with other things.

Crowley settled into the seat like it belonged to him, resting an arm across the table. "I'll trust you to order for me," he took the coffee and an immediate sip, without regard for temperature, but paused with it halfway to his mouth for a quick addendum: "--nothing with eel."

Aziraphale took a sip of bubble tea, thoroughly delighted by the sweetness, closing his eyes in enjoyment. It was perfect and comforting, especially after everything that’d happened.

The server took their order- well, Crowley’s order spoken by Aziraphale- and after a few minutes, brought them their food. Aziraphale had an assorted platter of all types, most of them with an added sweetness such as mango, and it was very clearly crafted with care. Crowley’s plate was similar, but with savory and spicy flavors, such as crunchy toppings and spicy mayo. None of their plates had eel (which normally Aziraphale quite enjoyed, but was currently feeling particularly embarrassed about it).

Aziraphale enjoyed every moment of being here with Crowley, and every delicious bite. However, somewhere deep down, he felt that something was amiss. He couldn’t quite place it, and had no proof to make accusations. But, the mood contained a general sense of unease. Crowley seemed usual and normal enough, but maybe that was the problem. He was never normal. 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, dabbing his mouth at the corners with a napkin, “Is there something wrong? Something on your mind, perhaps?”

Crowley would've liked eel, if he tried it. The knowledge would've haunted him until the end of his days.

He picked at his food, as he usually did, knowing that most of it would eventually make its way to the angel's plate. Crowley had a way of balancing this process that effortlessly made it seem as if he, too, were indulging to the same degree. He didn't mind food, and most of the time, he liked Aziraphale's recommendations - but generally, he liked watching his angel enjoy himself more.

He managed to hold onto that small pleasure even now, even with everything else that had happened, the dread coursing through his thoughts and veins, venom he'd refused to let take and would continue to refuse until he was well out of Aziraphale's sight. He couldn't talk to him about it, not yet. This moment was too serene, too peaceful to ruin for him. He seemed content, and the demon wanted nothing to do with changing that. Even Crowley's features were softer as he basked in the familiarity of a meal with the angel, and he was able to imagine, for the time being, that everything was as it should be.

"There's a lot on my mind," Crowley assured over a swig of sake. "A lot's happened. You were there," he smirked wryly, and filled Aziraphale's glass for him.

It was the perfect answer, delivered in the perfect manner, as far as he was concerned. Aziraphale felt his heart flutter. “Yes,” he agreed cautiously, a gleam of knowing and of unrealized desire dancing in his eyes, “I was there, wasn’t I?” He had a half smile, which, unlike his normal cheery smile, concealed something darker beneath it. 

Aziraphale nodded his thanks, and enjoyed the sake more thoroughly than he ordinarily would have. He did his best to settle his feelings and wants- this was hardly the right place for any type of display.

When they were finished eating, Aziraphale paid the bill, and slurped the last of the bubble tea. “What a lovely, delicious lunch!” he exclaimed, to everyone and no one. They walked out of the restaurant together, Aziraphale taking the time to say goodbye to seemingly every person who worked in the establishment, and stood outside.

He looked up at the demon, love pouring from his eyes. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said dramatically, not meaning anything deeper and certainly not tragic, though by virtue of the phrase it seemed as such. He stood on his tip toes and kissed Crowley on the cheek softly, and whispered “I suppose we’ll see each other later tonight then?”

And then he was off. “Mind how you go, dear, do be careful,” he called, with a wave of his hand.

Aziraphale's reaction did make Crowley smile in earnest, albeit subtly. He liked the look of that little smirk on the angel. It came paired with a slight pang of guilt, but he lived with guilt every day; it was easily overtaken by Aziraphale's light.

Crowley tried his best to enjoy the rest of their date, wondering for a moment if Aziraphale had registered it as such. He lingered nearby all the while as the angel said his goodbyes, hands in his pockets and standing just a little too close (because he could, and there were some things that nobody was going to take from him).

When they got outside, and before Aziraphale had the chance to part from him -after the briefest hesitation - Crowley took hold of his upper arm, tugging him close to return that kiss with another, set against his temple. He lingered a moment longer than was strictly necessary, basking in the scent of him.

"Tonight," he agreed, and the hold on his arm tightened affectionately before he let him go. Crowley rounded on his car, settling into the driver's seat, and called sharply out the window, back toward Aziraphale, as if the angel was the one who needed to be told - "Be good." 

With complete disregard for anything remotely 'careful', the tires spun, and Crowley'd gone, weaving his way carelessly through the busy midday traffic.

Aziraphale walked to a nearby church, smiling the whole way, pleased with Crowley’s attention. He enjoyed their newfound ability to display public affection, which felt at home in Soho. 

The church was a looming, intimidating building, and Aziraphale was slightly hesitant to go inside. Desperate in his search for forgiveness and renewed connection to the Almighty, he found his bravery and slowly meandered until he found himself at the door.

The entryway had, to his displeasure, an angel statue on either side, and he walked between them with a grimace. The statues seemed pretentious, like something he’d picture Gabriel enjoying, and the reverence made him feel uncomfortable. 

There was no current service. He could only hear the echoes of his footsteps reverberating against the vast, expansive walls. The church was beautiful in its emptiness. The high ceilings were pristine white and were, to his fortune, devoid of stained glass windows. He chose an aisle and slid into a pew, sitting silently and marveling at the building’s architecture. 

It had been a long time since he’d been in a church. He hadn’t even considered stepping foot inside one since the 1940s, when Crowley came hobbling into one to save him. That was the day he realized that, somewhere along the way, he had fallen in love with the demon. It was like a switch had been flipped somewhere inside and suddenly every moment they’d spent together made sense. The sneaking glances, the raw emotions, the ridiculous excuses to meet and the even more ridiculous excuses to stay. 

Eventually, he was approached by a priest who amusingly referred to Aziraphale as ‘my child’. He seemed a kind, attentive man, and he offered to help Aziraphale absolve his sins. They headed to the confessional where, with all his guilt and shame, he spilled his soul (amending some details, of course, like being in love with a literal demon). 

He discussed matters large and small with the well-meaning mortal, who attempted to offer counsel when appropriate. He talked about Forbidden Love (of which the priest couldn’t understand in earnest, of course, as he merely assumed Aziraphale was talking about homosexuality). Finally, they discussed God. The love of God and the faith it so constantly required. The feeling of being abandoned in a most vulnerable time, time running out, and the pressure of having to make potentially disastrous decisions.

“It isn’t easy to have faith, child”, said the priest, “many of us find trying times which cause us to doubt. Sometimes you must stand still, in order to get moving to where God wants you to go.”

Fuck, he needed a drink. 

He thanked the priest and exited the church, pondering their conversation. Humans were so lovely. He walked aimlessly around Soho, knowing he’d find himself sitting on a barstool in no time at all. 

Although he felt less encumbered by his problems, he wasn’t reassured about any of them. However, the most important goal was accomplished: he left with a stronger attachment to God’s love.

Crowley drove dangerously, even by his standards.

With Aziraphale out of the car, the flimsy wall Crowley'd built to try to contain all those feelings of panic and sorrow and rage immediately crumbled to dust. A hand slammed blindly at the center console, and Queen's _Liar_ drowned out the squealing tires.

Crowley's features were set in their grim severity, hands white-knuckled on the wheel as he sped back toward the flat. There wasn't anywhere else to go - try as he might've to come up with something that wouldn't be teeming with people this time of day. He couldn't go to a church. Besides, it wasn't like the sanctity of his space mattered, anymore. Clearly Heaven or Hell could infiltrate whenever they wanted; any safety he'd felt there was irrelevant, now.

He didn't even care. He didn't care that his own space had been violated, didn't care about the threat against him, didn't care who might've been waiting for him when he got back because Aziraphale was in danger. His _soul_ was in danger, and Crowley, the fucking demon Crowley was the only one who knew, the only one besides the ones (the One?) who'd decided that Aziraphale, of all beings, was remotely deserving of condemnation. He didn't understand. He couldn't understand. He'd seen so much evil done by so many of Aziraphale's superiors, so much wanton violence and hatred. They were malevolent, careless, unempathetic creatures that didn't understand their fucking jobs, but somehow, Aziraphale was worse. Aziraphale, who radiated love and light and hope and peace, who he'd never seen angry, even when he was. Aziraphale, who gave God's flaming sword to a couple of idiot humans and welcomed a demon under his wing - who'd gone on trying to save the world even when everyone'd abandoned him. Even when Crowley'd abandoned him, and the thought pained the demon even further.

And it was all because he consorted with the Serpent.

There couldn't be another reason, not one he could see. Clearly he was too tainted to pass the bar of _acceptable_ sin - because he couldn't think of any others Aziraphale'd committed. Not that he hadn't atoned for. Not that rivaled anyone else's whose feathers were still that glowing and pristine white.

The Bentley left parked at a slight angle at the curb, Crowley wasted no time in getting back to the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He stood for a time with his back to the door, eyes closed, silent and unmoving; the only plan he had was one Aziraphale would kill him for, if he survived in the first place. He couldn't risk it.

Yelling at God had never worked. The demon knew only one other way to appeal to Heaven, and he was about four-thousand years out of practice.

Moments later Crowley was in the bedroom, rummaging violently through the dresser. It contained more things than it did clothes: important memories and trinkets. The drawers seemed larger than they possibly could have been, and he felt the search was unending. Eventually he found it, a small, plainly carved wood box. The box was thrown unceremoniously back into the drawer once Crowley'd retrieved its contents: a rosary, which looked a breath away from falling apart with age.

He didn't need it. He knew the mysteries. He'd had a hand in some of them. He simply supposed the gesture might help emphasize the importance of his current plight. Forward the call a little quicker, if you would.

Ignoring the way it made his hands itch as he grasped the beads, he left the bedroom for the office, preferring the less chaotic space. He tried not to think about what he was doing as he sank onto his knees.

With the dusky-grey feather clasped against the rosary in his hands, for the first time in over half his life, the demon Crowley bowed his head and he prayed.

He didn't pray for Aziraphale. The problem wasn't with Aziraphale. The problem was in _him_. He was tainted. Defiled. A blight enough that the angel was being punished for it. Crowley didn't know why, but his repentance was sincere. He prayed for forgiveness he wasn't allowed, from a Lord who had none to offer him. He didn't pray for Aziraphale, but he prayed he'd be forgiven for Crowley's mistakes.

At least two hours had passed by the time Crowley had run out of apologies, had plead, had offered himself and his penitence in as many ways as he could manage to spare Aziraphale the wrath that was never his to receive. He felt nauseous. His hands were red where they'd clutched the beads, where they'd, bound by way of age-old habit, cycled through them. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to look down at the feather in his hands - but eventually he did.

The color hadn't changed.

Crowley sat for another twenty minutes. Then he narrowed his eyes and rose to stand, staring down at the feather in his palm. He pocketed it, and clutched the rosary again. The next prayer he voiced was not quite so contrite.

"O _Blessed_ Archangel Gabriel, we beseech thee, do thou intercede for us at the throne of _Divine Mercy_ in our present necessities..." and so on, and so forth, and the words were hissed through clenched teeth.

He wasn't sure whether the direct line still worked for the fallen. He'd never tried, but it was the only plan B he'd managed to forge in such limited time.

He was going to risk it.


	6. Thank God That I Just Don't Care

Aziraphale found himself sitting on a bar stool in Kings Arms. It was a decent enough place, though not his preferred bar, and a touch too feral for his tastes. The men here were too aggressive for his liking. And too hairy. 

He ordered a bottle of wine all to himself, and poured a glass. He sipped it, savoring its delicate notes, enjoying the ambiance of the club around him. It was loud, and dark, and the men were dancing like animals. There was a smell of sweat and alcohol, mixed with sex.

It was so beautifully human. 

A large, bearded man offered to buy him a drink, but Aziraphale happily refused. He was taken, you see. 

He contemplated his talk with the priest, feeling very grateful and very loved. It seemed blasphemous to pray while drinking in a gay bar, but he did it all the same. He started his prayers, as he often did, pleading for his beloved’s soul.

Alone, in the office, in the flat, Crowley finished his prayer. It was an earnest appeal. Gabriel couldn't just smite him out of the blue for an earnest appeal, could he? Nonetheless, the spark of Hellfire tingled beneath the skin of his palms. He fell into silence, and waited.

Gabriel laughed heartily. “Sandalphon, that’s _very_ good! So clever!” He straightened his light purple tie, chuckling all the while.

He looked down at his pager, which simply spit out coordinates. He made a face of curiosity. “Hey, guys, take a look at this!” 

The angels gathered around him, amused, drinks clattering. The faint sound of celestial harmonies could be heard in the background. 

“Who even calls us these days?” he sputtered, shaking his head. “Guess I’ll be back soon, huh?” he said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

He called, as he walked away from the group. “Sandalphon- keep ‘em coming! Save the jokes for when I get back, yeah?”

And with that, he was off. Testy as he was, whoever made the call was important enough for it to reach him. God worked in mysterious ways. 

There was a flash of light in Crowley’s room, and a rumble as if thunder itself were breaking in. Small knick-knacks were thrown off their shelves, and by the time the dust settled, it looked as if a small earthquake had taken place. 

And there he was. Purple eyes glaring harshly at Crowley, a mixture of anger and disbelief. 

“What _the fuck_ do you want?” demanded the Archangel, no hint of playfulness in his voice. He muttered, impatiently, “I can’t believe the Almighty even took _your_ call. I was having drinks with the guys. So. This better be good.”

"Oh - I'm sorry," Crowley spoke with a mild head tilt as the angel appeared. As if all the emotion, all the will it'd taken him - not to manage how _draining_ it was for a demon to pray the rosary for hours on end - had been nothing at all. It'd shut off like a tap the moment he'd finished. "I didn't realize your lot were off on Wednesdays."

Crowley could only hope, from Gabriel's current mood, that word of his immunity to holy water had spread to Heaven, too. Maybe it'd lessen the odds of him trying anything straight away.

"I want _this_ taken care of." Straight to the point. Crowley held up the feather between them. He hadn't even considered that Gabriel might not know what _this_ was.

Every inch of him was burning with the want to engulf Gabriel in fire. He hadn't forgotten Heaven, hadn't forgotten the way he'd spoken to who he _thought_ was Aziraphale. But he also knew Gabriel had power, and, while he was obviously upset with the war that wasn't, not necessarily any outright reason to hate him beyond... well, that was a moot point. Maybe he would at least try to be an angel. On the off chance he might, Crowley contained himself.

"I want to know what has to be done to fix it."

Gabriel was irritated. Firstly, all of this. Secondly, the Almighty thought it important enough to send the call to him personally. But he wasn’t to judge Her commands.

“What the fuck is that, Crowley? A pigeon feather?” he snatched it out of the demon’s hands hastily, holding it up in the light. He squinted, purple eyes closely inspecting the feather. He assumed, of course, it was Crowley's. 

“I don’t know what to tell ya,” he said with a dry, humorless chuckle. “I mean..” He shrugged. “Be more evil.”

After a momentary pause, he added testily, “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

Crowley managed not to flinch away when Gabriel grabbed the feather from his hand. It was an interesting parallel to the way the demon usually followed Aziraphale; he orbited in the same manner, ever-moving, pacing, gesturing - but usually it was with the effort to stay as close as possible to the angel. With Gabriel, he was doing everything in his power to keep whatever distance he could. 

"It's not mine," he spat, eyes flaring behind the glasses. "You know it's not mine!" the words flew from him, accusatory, and he clenched his jaw. Gabriel hadn't attacked him yet - he couldn't afford to provoke it. Unfortunately, he'd never been a master of reigning it in. "That wasn't how it happened for us. There wasn't a _transition_."

He wasn't calm, but the words were at least level: "I don't know how it works _up there_ anymore. I assume you know better," _O great and glorious Angel_ , "so tell me what has to happen for it to stop."

The angel glared at Crowley, purple eyes flaring with annoyance, as if the demon were a bug he was close to squishing between his fingers. Unfortunately, he was here on business. Not pleasure.

“Look,” he said, firmly, clasping his hands together like a CEO who was about to lay off an entire department, “ _I don’t know_ what the _fuck_ you’re talking about.” He smiled, cruelly. It was so far removed from Aziraphale’s light, that it didn’t seem they were made from the same stock. 

He was feeling particularly irritated now, and looked upon the demon with disdain. He held onto the feather, silently blessing it. Just enough that it would sting. He grumbled, “I can’t even believe I have to do this. You _do_ realize the Almighty relayed your call, yes?” 

He cleared his throat. “So. Why don’t you try again? What. The fuck. Do you want?”

The heat prickled at his fingertips, in the pit of his stomach.

What he wanted - what he earnestly wanted - was to take Gabriel by the throat, to burn Hellfire into his soul until diminished to nothing.

"You're an _angel_ , aren't you? She sent you, didn't She? Did it occur to you - even for a moment, in whatever flicker of a bulb you've got left up there," he tapped his own temple, briskly "that maybe you were supposed to come here and do your _job_ instead of acting like you're aiming at one Downstairs?"

He hadn't actually expected help. He'd hoped for it, with some shred he'd excavated from deep in his soul, saved for a moment he'd really, truly needed it. He hadn't known what else to do. At the very least, he felt vindicated in his knowledge it was pointless. Still, he tried.

"I want you to tell me why in the Hell you're still punishing Aziraphale. You. Heaven. The fucking lot of you. I want you to tell me why the one person among you with a single ounce of good in them," Crowley'd stalked in closer - but only a little, almost imperceptibly, "is being tormented for it. And if you don't know - why would you? Stupid to assume you'd know anything - I want to know who does."

Gabriel didn’t like this. He didn’t like Crowley, or his tasteless apartment, or this shit conversation. He was ready to be done with it. Forever. 

His eyes began to glow, and there was a sting of holy electricity in the air. _I’ll smite the bastard_ , he thought to himself, _and then I’ll be able to make last call._

And when it seemed lost- Crowley’s soul on the line- the light vanished, electricity immediately sucked from the air.

“ _Aziraphale?_ ” He nearly shouted, a worried look on his face. “This is _Aziraphale’s_?”

He paced now, quickly, circling the room. He twirled the feather in his fingers, contemplating. This was bad. Very bad. 

He held up a finger, shaking it as if he were admonishing the demon, “This… This shouldn’t happen.” He flicked the feather, letting it flutter to the floor, not caring about its significance to the demon. He didn’t remove the blessing; not because he wanted to necessarily hurt the demon, but simply that he didn’t care enough not to. 

He walked closer to the demon. Uncomfortably close. “Aziraphale somehow survived his punishment, Crowley. It’s _over_.” He pointed to the feather, “And frankly, this isn’t even my department. As far as I know, your little rebellion was the last time an angel fell.” 

His violet eyes flitted to the demon, to the feather, then back again. “Right. Well.” He clapped his hands. “We’re not doing _this_ ,” he gestured to the feather, “and I can’t help _you_.”

With a loud crack of thunder, and a blinding beam of light, he was gone.

Crowley could feel the change in the air. Started like static, became rather more worrying than that, the prickling arcs that traveled over his skin and made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

The demon didn't flinch. He couldn't. He'd survived holy water, what would a smiting do? He didn't want to give himself away. Instead, he tried to time the seconds in his head, tried to time it so that he knew just when to ignite the pillar of flame -- and the feeling fled him.

Crowley's eyes didn't leave Gabriel as he circled the room, his movements distinctly snakelike, as if he were ready to lash out the second he needed to - if he needed to. But Gabriel's reaction told him two things: the first, was that he wasn't going to need to. The second was that the Archangel really didn't have a clue. This worried him greatly.

He stepped toward, him, angry, closing the little space Gabriel had left: "Then what, in Hell's name, department is --"

But Gabriel was gone.

"Fuck."

Crowley had been under the impression that Gabriel knew most of the goings-on, Upstairs. He'd been sent as Heaven's representative in the Apocalypse, hadn't he? The only person _he_ knew that might know more would've been... Michael. The demon, stupid as he was, wasn't stupid _enough_ to tread there.

Not yet, anyway.


	7. The Tide is Out

Alone in the flat, for a moment Crowley was still hyper-aware, as if expecting another bolt of lightning to strike him down. It never came. He didn't relax - he couldn't relax, his adrenaline was racing - but he did collect himself enough to move. He reached to collect the feather - hissed aloud when he picked it up. _The bastard fucking idiot_. Still, it went into his pocket.

Crowley braced a hand on the desk, and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted - exhausted in the same way he had when he'd tread in Heaven, albeit on a smaller scale. Drained. His soul, he knew, had been seconds from extinction. He took a deep breath to compose himself. God had heard him, apparently, and still had quite the sense of humor. When he turned to leave the room, the demon paused to grind the rosary beneath his heel with a brittle crunch. He had a sense of humor too.

He'd head to the book shop. He didn't think Aziraphale would be there yet - it was still early enough, he hoped, that he might be able to get a bit of sleep in before he arrived.

Not ten minutes later, Crowley pushed the door open and made his way inside. His lip curled into a sneer at the smell - holy incense - apparently Aziraphale was already home. He locked the door behind him - manually - and meandered tiredly to the back room.

Aziraphale was pleasantly drunk. He was listening to old classical records, humming along happily, and had a pie in the oven. He’d begun drawing a bath, to get the smokey sex laden bar stench off of himself, and the water ran from the spigot loudly. 

The holy incense created a heavy cloud of smoke which wafted throughout the entire shop. There was no sulfuric smell, not anymore, but it had been replaced by the thick, eye watering scent of incense. Aziraphale would open windows tomorrow, in an attempt to get the smell out of his precious first editions.

He lit candles and placed them around the bathroom, enjoying the warm lighting, and added his usual oils and bubbles to the water. Before dipping into the tub, he removed the pie from the oven. It had miraculously cooled enough to grab a slice. 

He took his pie slice, and a cup of tea, with him and sat them on the edge of the tub. He disrobed and sank into the hot, soothing water, letting out a pleased, relaxed sigh. Aziraphale sipped his tea, and then laid back, allowing the water to wash over him completely.

He didn’t hear Crowley enter, being preoccupied with his little slice of Heaven.

In the backroom, the houseplant wiggled when Crowley approached. The record was playing loudly, and there was a half drunk bottle of wine on the table. There was also a crumpled receipt, which, upon further inspection, would reveal not only an extensive bar tab from the day, but also the phone number of a certain hopeful bartender.

The incense was cloying. It was cloying even when you didn't have what might equate to a severe allergy; it made Crowley's stomach churn. The disgust was painted on his face as he made a grab at the half-drunk wine bottle, dropping heavily into the same chair he always did. The head of the snake, if he remembered correctly, had been about two inches left of his shoe.

He drank. Heavily. He didn't even care that it was too sweet. Something told him that trying to change it for the better in the current haze of smoke might not end in an actual improvement.

He lifted his feet off the floor and crossed them at the edge of the table, stretching out as best he could in the limited space. His eyes slid closed - just a moment of rest, Aziraphale was busy with something or other and he'd come back eventually, he could take the time right now - 

one eye slid back open and focused on the plant. He lifted his glasses, just long enough to give it a direct glare.

 _Now_ he could take the time to rest his eyes.

After his extensive hygiene routine, Aziraphale emerged from the bathroom, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. He wore his usual comfortable nightclothes- a robe, rather similar to an angel’s robe, looking like it came from The Garden era. Old habits die hard, or in Aziraphale’s case, never died at all.

He began to worry. He’d been expecting the demon to barge into the bookshop any moment now, and he’d been listening for the distinctive announcement of his presence (‘Angel!’). 

He walked downstairs, tea in hand, to grab his bottle of wine. He noticed the door to the backroom was ajar, and halted. He miracled the cessation of music, and listened quietly for a few minutes. Being in the bookshop still didn’t feel very safe, he realized grimly, but there was nothing here save silence.

Feeling foolish and altogether paranoid, he continued into the backroom. He was thoroughly startled at seeing someone in the chair, and, after shattering his tea mug, realized it was Crowley. He placed his hand over his heart, calming his nerves with a small, weary sigh.

“Crowley! Oh, I didn’t hear you come in! Hello!” He quickly miracled the mug back together, cleaning up the mess.

Crowley'd settled with his fingers pressed into his eyelids beneath the glasses, head turned to the point he could rest a temple against the seat back. Not one part of his body was supporting its own weight. He'd managed to fall into a fitful sleep - bordered it, really - his head was pounding in that way that wouldn't let one really drift off.

When the mug shattered, the demon jolted, his other arm (clutching the wine bottle) tightening a bit in an instinctive effort - not to drop it, or preparing to hurl it - it was hard to tell. He registered Aziraphale standing there and breathed a slow sigh. "Aziraphale," he sounded relieved, if not a bit on edge. "Thought you were an intruder... oh," he realized, belatedly, the other'd probably had the same assumption about him.

"Sorry; I must've fallen asleep. Didn't want to disturb you," he pushed himself upright in the chair. "How'd the bars go?" _Did any angels happen to drop by asking questions?_

Aziraphale plopped into the chair next to Crowley, observing him closely. Something seemed unusual, but he couldn’t quite place it. 

“Ah, the bar was lovely!” His face lit up, eager to tell Crowley the details. Aziraphale’s expressions were filled with light and love; nothing like Gabriel’s countenance whatsoever. 

Where Gabriel’s features were handsome and sharp and cruel, Aziraphale’s were beautiful, cheerful, and soft. Gabriel’s eyes shone a beautifully violent violet, and Aziraphale’s were a cool, serene blue. His sopping blonde locks were curlier than usual, and his robe was perfectly white, making him look like he’d just walked out of a church painting. Compared to the other angels in Heaven, Aziraphale was hardly an angel at all.

“I tried this new lovely thing called a- oh, what was it again?- a Jello shot!” he chattered excitedly, “And a very nice man invited me to try a ‘Netflix and Chill’ but when I asked the bartender for it, he didn’t know how to make one!” 

He was smiling happily- filled with wonder and innocence- and gazed at the demon lovingly. “How were your errands, dear?”

Crowley's vision swam back into focus as Aziraphale continued to speak. However tired he was, whatever disappointments the day had dumped at his feet, the angel always had a way of improving his spirits. Sometimes, he was certain it was supernatural. That Aziraphale exuded some rare and perfect power, some aura, that had the capacity to heal, to rejuvenate. Maybe it was something reserved for those of God's angels who were really and truly good. Maybe it was just love.

He was so different from Gabriel. Until recently, Crowley had managed to go a very long time without seeing any of the other angels. He'd barely remembered the look of them, all crisp and severe and cold. They looked... well, they looked like Crowley did (but one expected that of a demon who did everything to pretend he wasn't). He didn't understand how Aziraphale even compared. _He didn't_. Aziraphale and the others, they weren't created for the same purpose.

Crowley stood, and moved toward Aziraphale's chair. There wasn't any of the same tension there'd been, days ago - the demon didn't hesitate to angle the angel's head up, to meet his lips in a short kiss. He got some small satisfaction from the fact that this was no longer a weighted decision - it was only a greeting. A greeting that bore all the love in the world.

"D'you really not know what Netflix is?"

It'd been one of his more brilliant inventions, he'd thought. Just when you thought Sloth was at its peak.

"They went alright, I think."

Aziraphale was doe-eyed as the demon kissed him, a light blush settled into his cheeks in its wake. He pulled Crowley onto his lap, nuzzling his face in the demon’s chest, not wanting to be further apart than necessary.

“No,” he practically sang, filled with joy at being so close together, “What is a Netflix?”

He looked up at the demon, caressing his cheek tenderly, admiring his gaunt features. His eyes were wide, trusting. “You look tired, love. Must’ve been a long day.” 

He held Crowley’s hand, and, feeling an unusual _pull_ , as if it were desperate for holy light, he inspected it. He made a slight, sharp inhale, seeing the red, raw skin. “Crowley!” he exclaimed, mostly out of surprise, but there was also a disapproving sharpness to his tone.

He didn’t wait to ask questions. Immediately, he went to heal the wound, and it was worse than it looked. It was a _holy_ wound. It ripped the energy out of him, hungrily and violently, and he rapidly pulled his hand away with a whimper. 

His vision darkened, and he groaned, hanging his head in his hands. “What- What happened to you?” he asked, his voice hoarse, and little more than a whisper. His breathing had become suddenly labored.

Crowley settled easily into Aziraphale's lap - the pull surprised him a bit, at first, but he was quick to shift along with it, not wanting to miss the opportunity. He slid off his glasses, tossing them onto the table beside. "Netflix is... ah, imagine all the television in the world. Well, not _all_ of it. But a lot of it. Now, it's all available, in _one_ place..." Crowley gave a rather lengthy explanation, which went on a few minutes more than necessary - "and everything's a cliffhanger, all the time. Wasted hours, wasted days. Who would've thought people could get any _lazier_?" Crowley never explicitly said it was his creation, but it was fairly obvious. He used the same proud tone he did when he spoke of any of his mass-inconveniences.

Crowley's face fell when Aziraphale noticed his hand. He hadn't forgotten the wounds; there was just no way he could've healed them. He'd considered gloves, but figured that would seem too strange a fashion choice even for him. 

"Don't -- you don't have to," but the angel was already trying, and Crowley quickly pulled his hand away. "Nothing happened to me! I did it to _myself_. Thought I'd have a conversation with the Almighty," he didn't like to admit it, but he thought it better than the alternative. "It took longer than I expected."

Technically, all he'd done was pray.

Heaven answered how it answered.

Aziraphale became ice cold, teeth chattering lightly. He kept his eyes closed and laid his head on the demon wearily. Crowley’s body felt so lusciously warm, and he wanted to be as close as possible, to soak up as much heat as possible. 

He’d only been able to partly heal one of the wounds. He didn’t expect the enormous amount of energy it drained from him, and he was left feeling cold and empty. His head ached, a dull pulsing sensation, and felt dizzied. He was lucky it hadn’t gone further. Though he was able to heal by virtue of being an angel, he wasn’t actually a healer- if he lost too much energy, he’d be discorporated. 

“ _You_ talked to the _Almighty?_ ” he asked weakly. “What? Why? What did She say?” Aziraphale had so many questions and he asked them rapidly. He’d been praying for the demon’s soul for so many years now. All he wanted was to spend eternity together. Perhaps this meant his prayers had been answered.

Despite his excitement and eagerness to trust that everything was perfectly fine-It was unlike the demon to speak with God. He furrowed his brow, suddenly worried of the unspoken implications. “Crowley. What happened? What made you talk to the Almighty?” he demanded, looking up at the demon. His eyes seemed perfectly blue, contrasted against his pale skin. His face was pallid and it was difficult for him to keep his head up at all. But he needed to know the truth, needed to see the demon’s expressions, look him in the eyes.

“ _Please don’t lie to me,_ ” he pleaded with great effort in his exhaustion.

Crowley frowned deeply and shifted, immediately curling both of his arms around Aziraphale when he felt the change, the warmth of his body diminishing.

"I didn't so much talk to Her as talk _at_ Her. She's not really the conversational type, is She?" The worry for Aziraphale was apparent on his features, in the way the bright yellow eyes searched his face beneath the ever-present furrow in his brow. The angel was asking questions he was unprepared to answer - didn't _want_ to answer.

But he had a feeling, hearing that plea, that if he didn't, it wasn't something Aziraphale would forgive him for.

He might not forgive him either way.

The incense made the thoughts swim in his head; each one felt too far away to grasp, and he didn't know what to say. He grimaced and shook his head, gaze hardening with a bit more focus. "I found out something that I didn't like, and I wanted to have a word with Upper Management about it. I don't... I don't want to tell you until I find out more about it, that's all." He couldn't tell him yet. He hoped that maybe, Aziraphale would understand - the desperation for it was there in his eyes: _Not yet_.

Aziraphale nuzzled into his companion's warm and comforting grasp. He had more questions than answers, but he did trust the demon's sincerity. He hoped that, perhaps one day, Crowley would able to be more open with him. Trusting. 

"I don't know what is so dreadful that you can't tell me, but _I forgive you_ ," he whispered gently, a small glimmer of pain in his eyes. He found himself melting into the demon's tantalizing gaze, drowning in it, hypnotized. "and, above everything, I hope you are safe. That, no matter where you are, you will be safe." Aziraphale had a knot in the pit of his stomach, worried that Crowley was being forced to return to Hell.

_I forgive you_.

It wasn't the sort of forgiveness he cared about. Crowley hated _this_ type almost as much as he craved it. The constant reminder that he wasn't forgiven, not really. And yet, coming from Aziraphale, it was somehow comforting. At least he wasn't completely hopeless, in the angel's eyes.

"Nothing's going to happen to me. I don't want you worrying about it," he rested his head tiredly against Aziraphale's. "I'm only ever going to be right here." With him. As he'd been for six-thousand years, as he would be for sixth-thousand more, regardless of what he had to do to make it possible. He'd walk through the gates of Heaven if he had to; he'd done it once already.

Crowley's head was pounding. He was utterly drained - Aziraphale's knee-jerk attempt at healing him had helped in the moment, but the more time he spent in the thick of the incense, the harder it was to focus through the headache. "Angel," he lifted his head, still draped around him. "The incense. That's our sulfur," like he was just realizing it, when he couldn't come up with a good comparison, prior. "Smells like... old vestments and mothballs."

Aziraphale only felt half-comforted by Crowley’s assurances, knowing full well that whatever the demon was hiding would be awful. It wasn’t _nothing_. Else Crowley wouldn’t care about it so much. He certainly wouldn’t care so much that his hands were burnt raw with prayer. 

Aziraphale hadn’t known Crowley to pray. Ever. Not once in 6000 years. He couldn’t imagine what sort of knowledge would prompt him to do so, but it wove a malevolent anxiety within his heart. 

Aziraphale chuckled weakly, oblivious to the weight of his own words, “Perhaps I’m a demon. Because I don’t like the smell either”. He hugged Crowley close to himself, giving him a squeeze. 

“Maybe we ought to go somewhere else for the night,” he suggested, though he didn’t know where they could go. Both of their homes had a permeating feeling of unease; infiltrated so easily by their enemies, they no longer had the same warm comfort as before.

"You're not," Crowley countered, a little too forcefully. "Don't even joke about it." Hearing it so flippantly caused a surge of annoyance; it wasn't as if Aziraphale knew any better, but the thought still weighed heavily on the demon's mind. He winced and brought a hand to his temple, pressing and closing one eye, like it might relieve the pressure caused by the smoke.

"Suppose the moon's still off the table? -- but I might have to, yeah," he admitted, finally. Any other day he could've handled it - he didn't like incense, but they'd never served to impede him much beyond making him feel a bit hungover. The prayer itself had taken a lot out of him; that was to be expected. He didn't know whether the presence of those wounds made things worse. Maybe it was the fact he'd been in such close proximity to the Archangel before, had felt the beginnings of his sinful soul begin to fray, but tonight the scent of them was far more repugnant. The blessed feather in his pocket probably wasn't helping matters.

Crowley didn't know if his place would be any better. Gabriel was powerful. He'd blessed something within the space ( _the absolute shit_ ), and the demon wasn't exactly eager to find out whether the Divine force he'd begun to summon had a tendency to linger.

"'s alright if you want to stay here. I know you don't like being away. Think I'm just getting a little too purified - embodiment of sin and all that. Feels like my head's in a vice. Does it not give you a headache?"


	8. Here Comes Two of You

Gabriel walked into Michael’s office with a brief knock that could only be measured in milliseconds. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He spoke the words out of habit, but there was no feeling or intention behind them. Interruption was of no consequence to Gabriel, so long as he was the person doing the interrupting.

He didn’t wait for a response or invitation. Gabriel sat, directly across from Michael, if not slightly too close. He adjusted his shirt cuffs and tie, quickly, until they were perfectly straight. His eyes danced, a haunting violet, against the white, expansive backdrop of the office.

“We need to talk,” he insisted, unsmiling, nodding slightly and raising his eyebrows. “About the principality _Aziraphale_.” 

* * *

“Sorry,” Aziraphale whispered, slightly confused by Crowley’s annoyance to his joke. He assumed the incense was putting his companion on edge- he himself wouldn’t be very happy sitting in a cloud of sulfur, as it was quite irritating to the sinuses- though he was aware of the possibility that it was much, much more than the incense.

“Well perhaps we could... leave town? For a few days, I mean,” he chimed. The hopeful look in his eyes was accompanied by a slight eyebrow raise. “Together,” he clarified, unnecessarily.

* * *

"Of course not, Gabriel." He was, but he was going to do it anyway. Michael was seated behind a large glass desktop that seemed far too large even in the open space; somehow it made her seem _less_ diminutive. Her cold, steel-blue eyes settled on Gabriel's, and the corners of her mouth upturned into a polite but barely-there smile.

She seemed unbothered by his proximity. The file-folder, open on her desk, was closed, and Michael folded pristinely-manicured hands neatly into her lap, as if to signal that he had her full attention.

"Why on Earth would we need to talk about _him_?"

* * *

"Ah, I'm sorry, Aziraphale it's.." Crowley gestured wildly to the room around him. "Throwing me off." It was the only explanation he could offer - at least for now. 

At the angel's next suggestion, the demon brightened. Almost too much. "Yes!" the demon barked immediately, emphatically. Even through the tiredness and the pain he knew an opportunity when he heard it. He slapped the arm of the chair, triumphant. " _Yes_ , angel, I've been saying it for years. We could leave town. Anywhere you'd like." Preferably someplace warm and very far away, he thought, but he wasn't going to be picky in the moment. "'cept for Ireland. Can't do Ireland. Outdated laws."

* * *

Gabriel looked around briefly; making sure no one was able to hear them. He met Michael’s gaze, his features stern and serious. There was a flicker of discomfort and fear in his eyes.

“I’ve heard some disturbing news. I need you to check our records,” he commanded. “See if Aziraphale’s been marked as _fallen_.”

* * *

“Outdated laws?” Aziraphale balked. “What laws? Since when do you care about laws? You’re a _demon_!” Still, the angel smiled to himself, happy to encourage their flirtatious bickering.

“Maybe we could visit the countryside. Leave the city behind for a while. It’d be lovely and quiet.” He took a moment to envision what a lovely, quiet evening in could mean for them. Blushing slightly, eager for his mind to change the subject, he asked, “Where would you like to go? If we could go anywhere on Earth?”

* * *

Gabriel suddenly felt rather more deserving of her attention. Michael watched motionlessly as he glanced about the empty room, noted his uncomfortable expression, filed it away.

Her brows lofted, almost imperceptibly. "Nobody's been _marked_ Fallen since the War," her tone was almost chastising, as if the concept were too ludicrous to warrant checking into. Pale hands set flat against the desktop and she pulled them apart, the bright-white interface spreading out before her. Michael's attention had turned to the files as she sorted through, nothing if not efficient, the softer fabric of her white blouse peeking out beneath the impeccably pressed sleeves of her jacket.

"Where did this disturbing news come from?" Her tone, as she asked, was slightly more casual, in the way that burnt coffee was slightly more drinkable with the addition of artificial sweetener.

* * *

Crowley sort of cringed and ventured, "St. Patrick?" The demon had actually never _tried_ going to Ireland. Didn't seem worth the risk, really.

"Countryside, sure. Sounds nice." Aziraphale could've told him he wanted to go visit a hole in the ground and Crowley's answer would still be the same. "Oh, I dunno. Been nearly everywhere on Earth already, doesn't really matter. So long as the wine's good."

* * *

“I got a _call_ ," Gabriel said incredulously, shaking his head. “When I went to Earth, it was the _demon Crowley_. I can’t even believe the Almighty sent his message.” Gabriel stood up briskly and began pacing Michael’s office. His hands were placed behind his back, and he stood upright with flawless, towering posture.

“He had a feather. A grey feather,” with this, he looked at Michael, gesturing his hands on either side of himself, “He said it was _Aziraphale’s_.” 

Although Gabriel was holy (perfectly, he would say), he wasn’t without sin. If the Almighty was punishing angels, the Archangels certainly weren’t immune to Her wrath. Aziraphale was, for all intents and purposes, like a small kitten living among lions. If he was being punished, what did that mean for the Archangels?

* * *

Aziraphale nodded, “Then it’s settled, my dear. Let’s go to the country!” With great effort, he stood, needing to hold onto the chair for support. He was a sickly pale, and his breath was ragged. The curls atop his head were dampened with cold sweat.

Looking at the demon, he smiled. Aziraphale tugged a handkerchief out of his pockets, handing it to the demon. Always more concerned with Crowley than himself. “Use this,” he insisted, “For the smoke”. 

He began slowly making his way out of the back room, trembling hands holding onto various surfaces in an attempt to keep himself upright. “I just need to pack a few things. Meet you at the car?”

* * *

"Oh, it was probably just a flaw in the system," Michael answered dismissively. Her eyes glittered with interest as she looked at the screen beneath her. "It's not as if the fallen ever _call_. The filter wouldn't have known what to do with it."

The Archangel looked up, briefly, when Gabriel gestured. "And this shocked you? Aziraphale is consorting with a demon," she reminded him, pleasant but firm. "If anything, I'm surprised it wasn't black."

Her attention turned back to the screen. Michael was indeed unnerved by this new revelation - for entirely different reasons - but nothing about her posture indicated as much. Aziraphale's smiling face appeared on the desktop before her, and she took a moment to absorb the information on display.

"No," she said conclusively, and closed the interface. "As far as our records go, there hasn't been a change." Michael's hands folded primly atop the glass surface. "Perhaps," said the Archangel, in a way that suggested her supposition was the obvious truth, "the demon lied."

* * *

Crowley shifted to let him up, slow in getting to his feet. He managed without much trouble - mostly because he was distracted from his own discomfort by watching Aziraphale's struggle. It went on for approximately six seconds before the demon was moving to wrap an arm around him, supporting his weight.

He waved the handkerchief away dismissively. It wasn't that bad (Crowley had a way of persuading his body to cooperate). "At this rate, you'll fall over and I'll be waiting a decade." The words were spoken with an air of impatience, as if the only reason he was helping was to speed things along. They both knew that wasn't the case. "What do you need? I'll get them, just tell me."

* * *

“ _Lied_?” dismissed Gabriel, shaking his head in disbelief. “I was going to _smite_ him, Michael, and he just stood there. He was _begging_ for Heaven to ‘stop punishing’ Aziraphale.”

After a moment, pondering, he said, “We both know Aziraphale shouldn’t Fall. Consorting with demons or not. He’s one of the purest angels we’ve got.” It would be almost tender, if it were anyone else saying it.

Gabriel was right, of course. He _always_ was. He didn’t give Michael’s theory a moment of thought.

“I want _you_ ,” he ordered firmly, waving a hand in Michael’s general direction, “to put some people on it.”

“ _Discreetly_ ” he added. “Find out what’s going on. Keep an eye on the situation and report to me directly.”

* * *

Aziraphale smiled at his demon gratefully, eyes radiating love. “Oh, thank you.” He supposed the smoke would be less intoxicating upstairs, and tucked the handkerchief away without protest.

“I’d like-“ he began rattling off a list of entirely too many items, almost all of which were completely unnecessary, like his bath salts or his winged mug or his cologne. It was boring, ridiculous, and entirely the type of thing Crowley was likely to tune out. “-my copy of ‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch-“ He was listing his most precious first editions now, as if worried they’d be whisked away while they were out of town. ‘-The Picture of Dorian Gray’ by Oscar Wilde-“

When he was quite finished, and they had somehow made it to the front door, the angel miracled (without thinking, in the slightest, that he could be doing the same with the other items) his bag onto his person, and was suddenly wearing the usual suit and overcoat.

“Right then. I’ll meet you at the car?”

* * *

_I was going to Smite him_.

The corners of Michael's mouth lofted the tiniest bit higher. Ever the polite smile. "It's not our place to decide who Falls, Gabriel. You know that as well as I do. Perhaps the Almighty wasn't pleased he averted his execution?"

"In any case..." Michael rose from her seat, hands still laced before her, and stepped around the desk to face Gabriel directly. "I think it best, for discretion's sake, if I handle the inquiry myself," her head inclined a degree, acquiescent.

"You'll have my report by the end of the week." It wouldn't take more than an afternoon. Without another word, Michael strode past him and out of the office, the soft click of her boots' heels echoing in her wake.

* * *

Crowley's initial intent had been to miracle all of Aziraphale's items to him, but as the list went on it was becoming increasingly apparent that it just wasn't feasible. He could barely get it to work in the holy fog around them, anyway. His eyes narrowed at the mention of a particular author.

"Meet you at the car, yeah," he assured, waving a hand to unlock the doors for him. "Go on." The demon would watch until Aziraphale was safely settled into the Bentley before he went about gathering all the items. He remembered every single one, breezing right past The Picture of Dorian Gray lest he sate his want to burn it to ash on contact.

He'd found a box into which he, by someone's grace, managed to fit the extensive list (with the exception of the aforementioned book), and soon enough he made his way out to the car to join Aziraphale. The box went in the back seat, and the demon settled into the front, breathing heavily, like he'd been starved of oxygen all the while. Forging on, Crowley pulled his mobile from a pocket, unlocked it and tossed it into Aziraphale's lap.

"Find a nice place to stay," he demanded. His glasses went back on. Without waiting for an answer to dictate direction, and with one last glance back to make sure he'd locked up the shop, Crowley stomped on the gas.


	9. Who Let You In?

Aziraphale did his best to navigate the mobile, though he didn’t have one himself, and found a lovely cottage that (he thought) would be perfect for a short getaway. It was miraculously free for the next few days, and he booked their stay with little trouble. The cottage was a small, charming, historic place, and Aziraphale thought it’d be impossible to avoid romance while staying in it. He smirked to himself, _knowing_. 

He navigated them- it was simple enough- and 90 minutes later, they pulled into the driveway. 

Aziraphale, while not feeling well by any means, was feeling _better_. At least, a little bit. His skin was still clammy and cold, and pale, but his teeth weren’t chattering and he was able to stand on his own (for a time). He helped Crowley unload the luggage from the Bentley, in an attempt to spare the demon’s raw blistered hands, and gathered as much of it as he could carry. 

Upon entering, he noticed how small and bright it was. There was a small coffee table in the living room, nestled among the couches, which held a bottle of wine and a note of thanks. _Lovely_ , he thought cheerfully. He placed their things in the bedroom- one bed; one large bed, covered in pure white sheets, piled with ivory blankets and pillows, he noted- and then went back to the living room to be with Crowley. 

“It’s lovely isn’t it?” he inquired with a weary, but delighted, smile. “So charming. Romantic, one might say”.

The drive would've taken a human an hour and a half. It should've taken Crowley an hour. This time, it took about an hour and twenty minutes. 

He'd started the journey at his usual speed and managed to maintain for the first half hour. As they went on, he slowed - and slowed - the usually very chaotic drive devolving into a very _normal_ commute. Crowley wasn't confident that he could keep up at the usual speed, between keeping the car going and avoiding certain, fiery discorporation at the hands of a _traffic accident_ of all things. He didn't acknowledge it, but the look on his face did: _If you say anything, angel, I'm dumping you on the side of the road_.

For once, he didn't protest letting Aziraphale help him with the luggage. Crowley hadn't brought any - he was used to snapping his fingers and having whatever he needed, never having seen the pleasure in the minor inconveniences of earthly life.

The cottage was small and white and Crowley was already squinting beneath his glasses, imagining through his headache how bright it would be in the light of the day. It was cluttered, claustrophobic, just _stuff_ wherever he looked and by the time Aziraphale rejoined him the demon was grimacing at the decorative pillows on the couch.

He picked up a blue checkered one and turned to face him, wiggling it with a lofted eyebrow that asked, _Really_?

Aziraphale pouted. “Well I think it is quite charming.” he slumped onto a couch with an exhausted sigh, “But if you _really_ dislike it here, we can find somewhere else tomorrow”. 

Aziraphale was _tired_. Tired how he imagined humans often were. His smile had lost its luster and, overall, he looked dreary. His usually sunny disposition was now overcast. 

He slipped out of his overcoat, his vest following shortly after, constricted by the constant feeling of fabric rubbing against his skin. Everything was overly sensitive and hyper stimulating. Even the bright walls, which usually would lighten his mood, made him feel sick. 

With a snap of his fingers, he dimmed the lighting to match that of the backroom in the bookshop. The throw pillows also disappeared, though solely for the demon’s sake.

Aziraphale undid his bowtie, tugging at one side to slide it off. As if he weren’t overly casual enough, he undid the very top button of his shirt, which felt suffocating, like it was leaning into his throat. A soft sigh escaped his lips, and he sank into the comfort of the couch.

Crowley tossed the pillow down and moved to sit beside him, slowly allowing his weight to sink into the couch. "I'm a demon, we don't like charming," it was an idle murmur as the demon sunk against Aziraphale, resting sideways so he could comfortably drape both arms around him, a leg bent at the knee to rest in his lap. It seemed like he was trying to find as many points of contact as possible by which to drag the other into him, wrap him in his hold.

A hand flattened somewhere over Aziraphale's collarbone, and Crowley traced his fingers over the skin usually hidden beneath that top button, beneath the curve of his tie. The touches dripped love and adoration, persisted up his neck and the side of his face. "I want to stay here," simply. Aziraphale liked it and that was all that mattered - though it didn't grant him an exemption from teasing over his tastes.

Crowley knew he wouldn't manage to stay awake for long. After a seemingly unending, emotionally fraught and exhausting day, all he wanted was to exist _comfortably_ within Aziraphale's presence for a while, not choked by the air around them.

Aziraphale’s breath quickened at the touch, and he leaned his face into it, enjoying the demon’s warmth and love. He smiled to himself sweetly, enjoying the moment. 

He took one of the demon’s hands, and brought it to his lips gently. The light kiss had a cooling sensation, though not a strong one. He didn’t have enough energy to do much, but he hoped, even for a little while, he could alleviate the pain. “I’ll try again tomorrow,” he promised.

He wrapped his arms around Crowley, tenderly, pulling him closer, and kissed the top of his head. “Why don’t we get some sleep?” he asked gently, knowing that Crowley would be the only one sleeping. Aziraphale simply wanted the demon to rest, recharge, after what he assumed had been a long ordeal. A guilty part of his brain, shamed at the thought, would have loved to see him pray.

When Aziraphale's lips met his hand he exhaled, appreciating the relief from the persistent thrum of pain.

"You're not doing anything tomorrow," Crowley protested, "tomorrow, we're lying in bed and not getting out of it for at least eighteen hours. I know you brought books, you'll keep occupied. We'll try after that."

Crowley was relaxed against him. He moved easily when Aziraphale tugged him close, and remained tucked there after. "I like your enthusiasm, angel. I'd love to get an early start," the demon kissed the crook of his shoulder, then began the process of disentangling himself to stand. The demon did look truly exhausted - his normally pale skin seemed paler, almost translucent in the whiter room - and he was sedate, a far cry from the usual animation and constant fidgeting.

He was hoping for a good, solid ten hours before Aziraphale got bored. Maybe the other'd be tired enough to try it with him. At this point, it didn't really matter - Crowley'd already started off toward the bedroom, shedding clothing along the way. The bed, he noted, was thoroughly acceptable, and he crawled into it without hesitation, curling up beneath the cool sheets.

Aziraphale smiled weakly and followed him into the bedroom, half wishing it were under more favorable circumstances. He scooped up the demon’s clothes along the way and turned out the lights. 

He didn’t undress, or grab anything, only expecting to be in bed until the demon fell asleep. He wanted a cup of tea but decided to wait until Crowley was comfortably dreaming before venturing into the kitchen. He could read later- his books could wait. This was far more important, and equally more interesting. 

He slipped his shoes off and joined him under the blankets, pulling him closely, enjoying the contrast of cool sheets and the demon’s hot skin.

It was the first time, Crowley registered, somewhere on an unending list he'd been keeping for six thousand years, he was going to fall asleep beside him. Intentionally, at least.

The demon stretched languidly between the sheets and came to rest, all at once, a melted puddle of limbs spilled over Aziraphale. "You can just.. untangle, when you're over it, yeah?" he explained hazily, mostly to affirm the angel had no choice in the matter. The headache was still there, as was the pain in his hands and the general feeling of _weakness_ , like a flu he'd caught in his brush with Heaven. Ironic, he considered to himself, considering his chosen bolster for the evening.

It wouldn't take more than ten minutes for Crowley to drift off to sleep - impressive, considering he was trying his damndest to keep awake and bask in the peace the moment brought him. He'd even forgotten to get rid of his glasses.

Aziraphale listened as Crowley’s breath became deeper, more relaxed. He closed his eyes, smiling, happy to be here together, to be away from everything- even the things in London he most enjoyed. 

He kissed Crowley on the brow, his heart swelling with love and devotion. It was refreshing, in a way, like his spirit was being rejuvenated. He felt less empty.

Aziraphale removed the demon’s glasses, placing them on the end table quietly, and slipped cautiously out of bed. The cottage was serene and still. He felt comfortable and alone, yet still connected to the Divine. 

He untucked his shirt and unbuttoned it entirely, inspecting himself in the mirror. Crowley was sleeping, he was alone- he could be sloppy, for a little while. He noticed the purple bruising around his collarbone, up the side of his neck, and brushed his fingers over it with a smirk. His belt was undone, hanging lazily in its loops, and he meandered to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

" _Hello, Aziraphale_ ," 

A familiar greeting. A familiar voice, the sort that managed a perfect imitation of warm, but still sent a chill down the spine for the knowledge of who it belonged to.

There was no bolt of lightning, no crack of thunder. Michael was simply _there_. She stood beside the table in the cottage's small kitchen, hands clasped gently behind her. While her posture was immaculate as any of the angels', she lacked the same inflexibility - seemed more natural in her appearance, her motions.

Two pristine white mugs had appeared on the table beside her, full and steaming in the comfortable light of the room, the light which seemed to catch at the sharp lines of her profile, her thin hand as she gestured to the mugs.

"Would you like some tea?"

Michael's smile wasn't like Gabriel's. It was barely there, but very real.

Aziraphale’s heart _stopped_. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, trying to determine which course of action would be appropriate. He wanted to scream, wanted to run, wanted to fight. But instead, he froze. He couldn’t decide on the best course of action, because there was no best. Michael could kill them both if she wanted to. Michael was _the_ angel. 

His fear was palpable. He’d forgotten about the events of the day- of the decade, really- and didn’t register how messy he looked. How bad the situation must’ve seemed, as he was half undressed, with bruises all over his upper body. 

Aziraphale stiffly walked over to the table and chose a mug. He knew he didn’t have a choice. It was futile to resist this is any way. 

“Michael,” he croaked with a slight nod and a forced half smile. “What- ah… What brings you here?”

Michael's eyes crinkled for a moment, as if she were amused by his reaction. "Business," she stated simply, and moved to sit in the chair opposite Aziraphale. One leg crossed neatly over the other, and she gestured for him to sit as well.

"I certainly hope I haven't interrupted anything," Aziraphale's appearance was clearly not lost on the Archangel. Her cool blue eyes lingered a moment on the bruises before lifting to meet Aziraphale's brighter ones - usually brighter. She noted that today they looked particularly _dull_.

"We received a call that greatly concerned us, Aziraphale, from the demon Crawley." And she sounded so _concerned_. Her voice, quiet as it was, seemed to linger on the air after she spoke, a soft echo. "I imagine you are aware of this?"

Aziraphale sat uneasily. He didn’t want to meet the Archangel’s eyes, but he knew he shouldn’t look away. _Michael_.., he thought bitterly. Despite the circumstances, he _always_ had room for petty jealousies. 

He cleared his throat, not realizing what Michael meant, exactly. His voice was strained as he spoke- a mixture of worry, exhaustion, and fear. “No- of course nothing is being interrupted”. The corner of his mouth twitched.

His brow furrowed, and he eyed the Archangel with suspicion. A flash of anger swiped across his chest, and pain. “ _Crowley_ ,” he _corrected_ her. 

“Crowley called Heaven?” There was no masking the fury in his eyes. His breathing became deeper, as if there wasn’t enough air in the room to satiate his lungs. “Why did he make the call?”

Michael did not correct herself.

"More accurately, he called _on_ Heaven," Michael said, a gentleness to her tone, as if she truly meant to soothe Aziraphale's addled nerves. "We were equally surprised, but I suppose the Almighty doesn't discriminate."

At his question, the Archangel tilted her head, weighing whether or not she trusted the other's ignorance. He seemed sincere enough - and he'd never been a very good liar, as far as Michael could recall.

"He didn't tell you," she observed. A note of sorrow buried itself in her voice. "He plead for forgiveness. For absolution. It was really _quite_ moving; enough so we've begun an inquiry, at his request." Her head straightened.

"I'd like you to show me your wings, Aziraphale."

Aziraphale felt like he’d been punched by her words, and he made a slight but sharp exhale. Tears immediately formed in his eyes. He regretted ever doubting the Almighty. 

He _knew_ Crowley was good, had always known. He was moved that Heaven was giving him a chance to regain redemption, salvation. He was even more touched by Crowley asking Heaven, despite how dangerous it was for him. His heart panged, and the burns on the demon’s hands formed new meaning. _Sacrifice._

“He… he will be forgiven?” he breathed, voice raspy with emotion, the desperate longing radiating from his eyes. They could go to Heaven. _Together._

He opened his wings, not taking a moment to contemplate _why_ he’d need to show her them. They were bright and pristine as always.

Except, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, they weren’t. At least, not entirely. Buried in this mass of feathers, barely visible, was a pair of down feathers slightly tinged with grey. Just two. But they were there all the same.

"Crawley is fallen," she stated simply, though that sorrowful tone lingered. "You know he cannot be forgiven." Michael rose from the chair in a single fluid motion, circling Aziraphale as if she were inspecting his uniform.

It only took her a moment to see them. Her mobile appeared in her hand, ethereally unsuited to earth, and she lifted it to take a steady photo.

"Reviewing the call, it seemed he was hoping to _lessen_ his effect," the Archangel continued, punctuated only by the sound of her footsteps on tile as she moved back to her seat, "on you." She slid the phone across the table to him, face-up, the darkened feathers plainly visible on the screen.

"You aren't considered fallen, Aziraphale," she continued brightly, not offering him a moment to breathe. "I verified it myself - but it would seem as if you're starting to slip."

Aziraphale’s face fell- all hope extinguished in one, simple sentence. It was a tangible sensation- sucked from the room, leaving nothing. He’d never felt more destitute, so empty and broken, like happiness would never find its way back to him. Like the sun would never shine again.

He looked at the picture of his wings, horror and sorrow and pain twisting his heart into pieces. “His effect… on me,” he whispered, gut wrenching anguish tearing at all corners of his mind. It was all he could do to hold himself together, to not crumble into a million pieces right here. 

**_Sacrifice_.** Crowley’s prayers weren’t for a selfish desire to return to Heaven, weren’t for them to stay together, weren’t for them to live in eternal bliss. They were for him. To spare him from damnation. 

“It wasn’t Crowley,” he asserted, hardly more than a whisper. “It was me, Michael.” Fat, salty tear drops spilled eagerly, finding their way down his cheeks, onto his neck. “It was me”. 

His voice broke, laden with torment and pure soul crushing _agony_. “I have sinned, of my own volition”.

"Of course. No-one can sin on another's behalf," the mobile vanished from the table between them without so much as a gesture from the Archangel, and Michael finally reached for her own mug of tea. It was a moment spared for his sake, so it seemed, to allow him the chance to piece himself together.

When he didn't, Michael rose. She moved to stand beside Aziraphale and reached out, fingers curled delicately as if she intended to cup his jaw between her hands. In reality, her fingers hovered just above the skin. Gradually, they began to glow. A soft, amethyst-blue glow, so pale it was almost white, spread forth to Aziraphale, cloaked him in Heavenly light. The power poured back into him, flooded in almost to the point of discomfort, then left him awash momentarily in a haze of gentle warmth, the same warmth that swam in her eyes as she looked upon him. He'd been healed entirely, down to the _unsightly_ bruises.

"You have my Blessing, Aziraphale, that it might offer you strength," seeming as if she'd expended no power at all, her hands again locked neatly behind her back.

"We can help you - but not if you aren't willing to help yourself."

The holy power filled him with love and grace and Divinity. It returned his strength, breathing life into his spirit. But it did not stop his tears. Did not lessen the agony ripping apart his soul. Did not un-break his delicate, bleeding heart.

Crowley had known, somehow. He’d known about this soul spiraling towards darkness. He’d known enough to call Heaven, to beg for him. Was it remorse that held his tongue? Shame? Did the guilt motivate the demon to fix the problem, so that Aziraphale would be spared from knowing? Spared from the torment?

“Help me? How?” he pleaded, knowing that either way, he’d need to make a choice. A choice he thought he’d made already. Salvation and loneliness. Or damnation and Crowley.

He felt the world around him crumbling into pieces, the darkness threatening to swallow him whole. Holy light couldn’t heal the emptiness that threatened to destroy him, seemingly in his entirety.

The pain was intense, surging through his very essence, almost like it would discorporate his fleshy human form. He felt, somehow, betrayed. Insignificant. Alone.

"I don't know yet," Michael admitted honestly, with another of those barely-there head tilts. "We haven't seen an angel fall since the others were cast out. We don't control it - not like this," there was a disarming openness to her - she rang less hollow, despite not being wholly empathetic.

"Gabriel brought this to my attention. He's as concerned as I am, Aziraphale. Traitor as you may be," _traitor_ , she said the word lightly, as if it had no weight, "Neither of us believe you are deserving of damnation. Neither does your friend," Michael's eyes drifted the direction of the bedroom, where they remained fixed for a long moment.

"You trust _his_ opinion, don't you?"

“I do,” he admitted, lip quivering, eyes red from the never ending stream of silent tears. “I always have”. He wanted to hate Michael in this moment, but he couldn’t. He had no hatred left for anyone but himself.

Aziraphale, always devoted, loyal. He’d spent 6000 years with Crowley- longer than he’d spent with anyone in Heaven. Longer than he wanted to spend with anyone.

“I..” he looked away, unable to maintain eye contact with the Archangel. His heart was racing, aching, deteriorating into little more than dust. “I _love_ him”.

In the back of his mind, he knew this moment would be replayed in Heaven. A training video, of what not to do on Earth. Fall in love with demons. No matter. He said it out loud, to himself and to Michael. To Heaven. To God. Surely, God must understand?

"He was _desperate_ to help you," Michael continued. "Enough so to stop Gabriel striking him down where he stood," she looked back to Aziraphale.

A small smile graced her features.

"I forgive you."

And she moved on, as if no admission had been made. "You need to tread carefully, Aziraphale." Michael took a single step backward, gingerly smoothing the collar of her jacket. "Nobody ever fell without good reason."

“But… why? Why am I Falling exactly?” He looked exhausted once again. Tortured. The tears had slowed, but his cheeks were streaked with the marks they’d left behind. His eyes were pink from crying, and exuded pure grief.

“I’ve _loved_ him for a century,” he admitted, unashamed. He had a glimpse of a half smile, genuine, his heart sinking as he pictured the demon hobbling into the church. Handing him the books. It faded as quickly as it had appeared. “It seems unlikely to fall after all this time”.

"Corruption breeds corruption. I can only imagine how much of it, over the course of a century. That said, you're the only one who might know."

Michael had planted the necessary seeds. Hopefully with a bit more tact than Heaven usually did, she thought, recalling her last interaction with Aziraphale.

"I would consider yourself lucky to have a warning. Perhaps it's a sign the Almighty agrees with the rest of us." She inclined her head toward him. "I'll continue to look into what might be done, Aziraphale. In the mean time, you _do_ know how to reach me?"

“I do.”

It all seemed so overwhelming. So sudden. The Almighty never took offense with his love before, so why now?

It couldn’t be the physical intimacy, the hedonism. He’d had more than his fair share over the eons he’d spent on Earth. All with men. God didn’t seem to care too much about that.

He couldn’t help but feel like something was _very_ wrong. That it was all just a big misunderstanding. He, briefly, considered contacting the Metatron. Until he remembered how it ended for him the last time.

Perhaps he was just looking for a way out. A way that included Crowley.

"I'll hope to hear from you, Aziraphale."

Michael said it as if she were talking to an old friend. As if she truly hoped, was earnestly invested in whether or not the Principality decided to commit himself back to Heaven.

As abruptly as she'd come, she was gone, the tea still cooling on the table.

Aziraphale sank to his knees, staring up at the sky, silently pleading with God. God loved him. God _had_ to love him. He knew it, deep down, and couldn’t bear to consider otherwise. His wings were still spread. Still white, from what he could see. But he knew the truth.

_‘…corruption breeds corruption…’_

After spending, what seemed like (and probably was) several hours kneeling, he took a shower. It was hot- too hot- and stung his pink, overheated skin. He wanted the pain. Deserved it, even. He could smell the wet feathers, feel them weighing him down.

_‘… he was desperate to help you…’_

After a while, he found himself kneeling, praying. Crying. It was the cry he’d concealed from Michael. A blubbering, messy sob. The type of cry that came from deep within, not just the lungs, and tortured the soul. He hugged himself tightly, as if he could comfort himself from the agony, as if he could spare himself the pain.

_‘… nobody ever Fell without good reason…’_

He dressed in his robe, playing make believe. As if he was still a real angel. There was a darkness inside of him that didn’t exist yesterday. A wild, savage _hurt_ that twisted the world from the beautiful, inspirational one he knew, to a dark, twisted hellscape.

He walked into the bedroom, quietly. He felt empty. A husk. A worthless shell, alone to bear his suffering, alone to blame for his sins. He looked upon the demon, his heart breaking all over again. Without thinking- or, perhaps, caring- he held Crowley’s hands in his own, and let them violently rip the divine light out of his soul.

He was convinced he saw a faint smile on the dark angel’s lips, just before everything went dark, and he collapsed onto the cold floor.


	10. Split Didactics in Two

Crowley wouldn't wake for hours.

He'd been exhausted for days, wearing down more with each passing hour - he needed much more than sleep to recover, now, but it would do while it was all he had at his disposal. It wasn't getting worse, at least, not now his hands had been healed.

With a low groan, the demon shifted. He stretched beneath the blankets with his eyes still closed, absentmindedly fanning out his limbs, checking beside him for Aziraphale. He wasn't surprised not to find him there, but his brow knit in mild disappointment all the same.

The fabric felt cool against his skin. He hadn't expected the wounds to heal so much overnight - it was a slow, nasty business at the best of times, and he'd thought that this morning the burns would've really come into themselves. He blinked one eye open, squinting at his palm, half ready to wince from the sight of it. The other eye opened, and both narrowed.

Pushing himself upright, he saw the Angel straight away. His wings were spread beneath him, gloriously bright in the sun, their own light seemingly aglow on the walls. Crowley's heart leapt into his throat. " _Aziraphale!_ ," he cried, scrambling immediately from the bed and skidding to his knees beside him. Crowley's hands immediately grasped at him, lifting his head, and he searched his face frantically, delivered a few quick slaps to his cheek, trying desperately to wake up. "Wake up," he snarled, grasping at the front of his robes, " _now!_ " The grief constricting his soul twisted plainly on his features, near hysterical-panic which manifested in a frantic sort of ferocity.

The angel’s face was ghastly pale, save for his bluish lips, and a cold sweat covered his brow. His skin was ice, so cold it had seeped into the floor beneath him.

Aziraphale’s breathing was shallow, labored, as if each breath was strained more than the last, as if the air was too thick for his lungs. His wings were still damp, and left the floor slick with droplets of chilled water. A feather hugged his arm, glued, as if it had been frozen in the night. Grey.

His limbs hung heavily in the demon’s grasp. Wet, clinging robes billowed around him, their aesthetic beautiful and cruel, their ivory shining and pristine.

“ _Crowley,_ ” he whispered, weakly, voice frail and fleeting. He wasn’t awake. He was lost in torturous nightmares, tormented 6,000 different ways, begging for salvation, for forgiveness. He was in Hell and it was agony. But he wasn’t alone.

There were two cups of tea in the kitchen.

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeated, over and over again, the name a desperate litany. His arms coiled around him, fiercely protective as the demon tucked Aziraphale against his own body, shifting every few moments, searching, struggling raking his thoughts for anything that might help. He didn't know. _He didn't fucking know._ He couldn't try to heal him, he needed something - someone holy, but Crowley was certain that if he took that route again he wasn't coming out alive.

"Aziraphale, tell me what to _fucking_ do," he was wicking the moisture from his robes, from his wings with his own miracle, with whatever power he could still manage. "Angel," he was pleading now, "You can't do this. You can't do this - _you can't_ **do** _this_ , we aren't _doing_ this. _Please_ , angel."

‘ _…Angel…_ ’

He felt lost. Weightless. The disorientation reverberated along his skull, addling his mind. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. Confusion. Pain. Cold. He was surrounded by darkness, frozen in time.

‘ _…you can’t do this…_ ’

The warmth swirled around Aziraphale, thawing his limbs and wings. He felt the heat return to his face, bringing small splashes of color with it. He heard a voice, far in the distance, pleading. He faded, in and out, gone. Emptiness.

‘ _…_ **_please_ ** _, angel…_ ’

His body was heavy, disconnected. All the effort, concentration. He could feel his lips- they were moving- speaking. Aziraphale called out for him. Reached out for him. Held his hand, feeling it melt through his skin.

“Crowley?”, a whisper, weak and small. His eyes fluttered open, bloodshot with grief and pain. He saw him but couldn’t focus. “Am I alive?”

Crowley was hunched over him, face streaked in angry tears. Jaw set in anguish, his red hair a mess on his forehead, he cradled Aziraphale in his arms, propping him between bent knees, an immovable force around him.

The demon's wings loomed above, stark black in the white room, bracketing his form in an arc that curved forward with a sleek brilliance, resting around he and his angel both as if he meant to shield them from the rest of the universe. It was sheer instinct in the face of his greatest terror come to pass; he'd barely even noticed, didn't care, it didn't matter, nothing mattered. Nothing but Aziraphale like ice in his arms mattered.

He hadn't even questioned how it happened yet, too consumed by the paralyzing fear.

_Am I alive?_

" _Yes_ ," he replied instantaneously, "You're alive -- you're alive," he repeated, as if he were reassuring himself, "tell me what to do. Tell me how to help you, angel, please." His fingers laced clumsily through Aziraphale's, gripping tightly.

As the moments passed, he began coming back to life, reanimated. The demon came into focus, face paralyzed with anguish, nightmares. His yellow eyes glimmered against the backdrop of beautiful, blackened wings.

“I can’t lose you,” Aziraphale pleaded. “Please, I can’t”

He found Crowley’s hands, savored their warmth, held them in a weakened grip. His thoughts were murky, difficult to find. Half-conscious.

“I’ll fall” his voice rang out, twisted with anguish and pain. The weight of his words enveloping them.

“I’ll fall. I need you. You’re Heaven. You’re everything” his eyes drifted shut, resting. “I need you”. He felt Crowley pressed against him. Warming him. Reviving him.

“I love you.”

"You're not going to lose me; I've told you a thousand times you'll never lose me. You'll never be _rid_ of me angel -- I'm never leaving you," the words were growled, fierce and insistent against an ear as Crowley clutched him closer, heart hammering so hard in his chest he was sure Aziraphale could feel it.

His words rushed forth, no time to consider between; the thoughts poured out of him as they came, mind abuzz with pure emotion which left no room for rationality.

"You're not going to fall. You can't fall when I'm here because I won't _let_ you," his grip was almost painful. "I told you you were mine. I won't lose you. In six thousand years I've not lost you, through Armageddon I've not lost you. I love you, Aziraphale. Nothing can fucking _touch_ you."

His wings curled in tighter. Crowley's eyes, which had been devoid of anything but fear until his angel spoke, had sparked back to life - burning with the same fire and intensity he ground into every word.

"Not God," he breathed, shakily, "not the Devil. Not Heaven or Hell. You are _mine_."

The words embraced him, filled his soul with fiery, passionate love. He needed them, wanted them. Couldn’t live without them. He was here now, present in the demon’s love and light. His fire filled the void, bloomed warmth into his cold veins. His heart pumped rapidly, heaving, trying desperately to keep pace.

Aziraphale coughed, a smattering of blood staining his lips. His breath was shaky, labored. The color was returning to his face, but he was frail, pained.

“Water,” he stated, weakly. “Bible. Blankets.” He needed prayer. Divinity. Barely living, perhaps, only due to the demon’s sheer will.

He was dizzy, the room spun around him, stars danced on his eyelids. There was an emptiness inside, a void which stretched into his spirit, clawing at it, desperate to rip it down. He fought back. His body fought back. The cold tried to force its way inside.

Each of Aziraphale's demands were willed to their side immediately, with the exception of the bible, which proved a struggle. Still, Crowley persisted, and before long he was shoving the book into the angel's hands. If it hurt, he didn't seem to notice.

The blankets were layered around him where he lay, Crowley shifting as needed to make sure that they were tucked in as best they could be. He could move him, he had no doubt, but a part of him was still afraid; he'd never seen him so frail, so weak, and it terrified him. If this vessel was lost, he might never see him again (though he'd storm the Gates of Heaven to try). He didn't want to take any risks.

With a shaking hand, the demon lifted the water toward him, free arm already having coiled around him once more. Crowley wasn't moving. Wasn't leaving. He didn't care if Aziraphale was going to pray, was going to douse himself in holy water, if he'd have to will his way through the haze of divinity to stay by his side.

"I'm here," he assured lowly, holding his angel against him amidst the mess of their wings. "I'm not going anywhere."

Aziraphale tasted the water, which was unpleasantly cool on his lips, and drank. The blood, a brush stroke of red watercolor, mixed fretfully with the liquid in the glass. He allowed himself to Fall into Crowley’s arms, let himself appreciate their strength in his own weakness.

The demon’s devotion surged through him, wrapped his soul in gauze and tape, strung him together piece by piece. It wasn’t God’s love, but it wasn’t unlike it either.

There had to be a mistake. Heaven had gotten it wrong. God loved him. God _had_ to love him. God wouldn’t make him choose, wouldn’t make him suffer, wouldn’t make his heart blow away like dust in the wind. All love expressed Divine love. All love was prayer and sacrifice. All love was forgiveness.

Aziraphale put his trust and faith in the Almighty, as he often did, and let the bible flip to a page at random. In a soft, feeble voice, he read the blurring words, “ _Isaiah 41:10: So do not fear, for I am with you; Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous hand._ ”

He smiled in earnest. His faith and absolution, one in the same. His gaze met Crowley’s with a sparkling of renewed hope. Aziraphale then slipped into a fretful sleep, a subtle but sweet smile resting on his countenance.

True to his word, Crowley didn't move.

The demon remained at Aziraphale's side, those dark expansive wings gradually slackening until the tips of the feathers grazed the floor but even then he held them aloft, kept them wrapped carefully over the wounded angel in his grasp.

He didn't sleep. Instead, he spent his time gazing at the slow rise and fall of Aziraphale's chest, intent, like he were willing it on himself and frightened that at any second it might falter.

Crowley's love belonged to Aziraphale. The careful reserves he'd partitioned for anything else ran dry and when they began to renew, it was with a want for vengeance unlike any he'd felt before. It was a hunger, amplified - though he didn't realize it - by the need to replenish himself, to replenish the power drawn from Hell.

His exhaustion created a void, a void into which spawned all manner of twisting fantasies, of white wings stained in blood and black wings torn asunder, of pleading violet eyes wild with fear. He could begin to surmise what had occurred. Not exactly, of course; he hadn't so much had left the room to know Michael had been present, but from Aziraphale's incomparable _sorrow_ he knew that he'd discovered the change in his wings. He knew because he'd felt it once, too.

A pale hand extended, glided over the soft white feathers without touching as Crowley held him. The angel didn't deserve any of it. Any of this. If Aziraphale was being tested, he didn't know why. If it was a test for Crowley... didn't they know they were wasting their time?

He stayed there for hours, a gargoyle of old, protecting his dominion and thirsting for blood.

Day bled into night, harsh yellows of the day melting into more tolerant and suitable hues. The countryside rolled around them, beautiful and tranquil under the transitioning sky, and it swayed in the cool breeze. There were no lights, none of the bustling in Mayfair, none of Soho’s theatrics. There was just a settling stillness, the two of them, alone.

Aziraphale stirred. The shadows of the room had grown long, greedy and desperate to hang onto the last doomed moments of sunlight.

He opened his eyes slowly. While still significantly weakened, he had rejuvenated somewhat, due to the hours of being clutched tight in the demon’s warm, loving grasp. The color had returned to his cheeks, which were no longer waxen, and his eyes retained their usual sparkling blue.

“Crowley.” his voice rang out in the otherwise quiet, expanse of white walls. There was a charmingly pure smile to be found, as he gazed on Crowley with wonder and love. The angel adored being in his arms, surrounded by wings both black and white, feeling the demon’s heart tick rhythmically.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, and so, he said nothing at all. He waited to earn the demon’s forgiveness, clinging to this moment of serenity, before the inevitable storm of his own creation.

The light slatted across Crowley's features in a way that emphasized the bright yellow eyes, which looked duller beneath heavy lids, strangely void. The angle of his head shifted slowly, as if he'd roused from slumber. For a brief moment the sun licked at his cheekbone, flickered iridescent and scale-like in what must have been a trick of the light, and his gaze met Aziraphale's.

"Angel," he murmured, voice even in unmatched tiredness and relief. A glimmer of warmth sparked in his eyes, somehow resisted the stifling corruption of the immense sorrow which otherwise dominated his gaze. The arms around Aziraphale tightened impossibly.

"Tell me what happened," of course, the anger was there too - untapped - waiting for its target to be named.

Aziraphale nuzzled against the arms which tightened around him, that were viciously determined to never again let go. He sensed the dangerous, beautiful presence of The Serpent.

He let silence overtake them, and he basked in their closeness, living for the stillness which consumed the moment. He sighed, lightly, and it was a mixture of relief and comfort. Crowley had become his shelter against the suffering, the fury, the pain. Against the loneliness.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, firm in his convictions. He felt God’s blessing caress the flicker of his soul, nurturing it, kindling it. He had faith in the Almighty, in Her light and Her love. He had faith that God would accept his worship and devotion. Faith that God would accept their love.

The angel’s eyes were tired, but his smile bright and full of hope. “I might have overreacted.” He squeezed the demon’s hand lovingly. “I don’t care where my soul goes or is. As long as it stays with you”.

Usually the angel's light was enough to whisk Crowley straight from the darkness. Today - having awoken to the sight of Aziraphale, _his angel_ , sprawling lifeless on the floor beside him and no reason _why_ \- the darkness was winning.

Wherever Aziraphale gone in his dreams, Crowley'd followed unknowingly for hours on end, imagination spiraling to the farthest reaches of Hell and back as he tried to fathom what possibly could have occurred, and not one of the scenarios had a peaceful end for the being responsible.

The demon's eyes flared dangerously.

"I woke up to you lying in a puddle, a breath away from discorporation. I want to know why." It wasn't a question this time.

A faint pout traced his lips. Aziraphale didn’t want to divulge everything he’d learned from Michael. It was too painful. Too fresh. And Crowley had already spoken to Gabriel on his behalf- it was too dangerous, Aziraphale reasoned, for Crowley to know more.

Michael could kill them both, if she’d wanted to. With a chill, he recalled her long gaze towards the bedroom, where the demon rested soundly and unaware. He wondered if Michael _had_ planned to kill them.

“I healed you” he stated plainly, not attempting to lie or otherwise provoke the demon. He also knew that his barebones answer wouldn’t be enough. “Your hands were burnt… You burnt them praying for me. It was the least I could do, really.” He tried to take on a casual air, but the circumstances weren’t suited for it.

Crowley winced as if the angel's answer physically hurt him, the dark wings twitching in what seemed to be indignation.

"Gabriel, then," Crowley concluded flatly, coldly.

He hadn't told Aziraphale he'd prayed for him. At least as far as he could recall he hadn't - it was all hazy, a straining mess of panic and chaos and undue hurt that bled together to form a single, hemorrhaging wound. He was tired of bandaging it, wanted to cauterize it once and for all.

"He came here?"

Aziraphale’s wings bristled slightly. He felt a growing tension in his shoulders, and a general sense of unease intertwining itself between them. He’d already, accidentally, said too much.

“No,” he said, slowly, cautiously. “Not Gabriel.”

He fidgeted slightly, limbs still heavy and sore. His anxiety was building, rotting away what little composure he was able to muster.

“I don’t think we should discuss this any further.” he chided. “You’re too reckless, Crowley! Gabriel could have _destroyed_ you!”

His cheeks were hot with irritation and worry. The angel was close to tears, simply due to the sheer stress on his exhausted mind.

“And in any case,” he added, crossly, “the matter is settled. There’s nothing left for _us_ to do.”

"I - _I'm_ too reckless?! You decided to heal me while I slept _until you nearly died_ so, what - I'd have a nice surprise to wake up to in the morning? No other reason? I'm supposed to believe that. Just supposed to let that go. Well, thanks for that! I appreciate it, truly."

Crowley forced an exhale, brow furrowed to its limit.

"I called Gabriel to ask for _help_ . That's all I did. I didn't attack him, I didn't provoke him," _much_ , "and I tried to imagine for half a second that Heaven might do its _job_. But I can't accept this," he gestured to the other's weakened form. "I need the reason, Aziraphale."

His lip quivered- a subtle warning of his reignited emotional turmoil. He held Crowley’s hand tightly, squeezing inattentively, almost as if he’d break it.

“ _Michael_ ,” he said with loaded bitterness. “ _Michael_ told me _everything!_ -“ as he began, he felt himself unraveling with it all, the distress and grief swelling within his fragile heart. His voice became louder- louder still- until he was shouting, screaming, the words exploding out of his lungs.

“And _yes_! Crowley! You _are_ reckless! And you didn’t even tell me that I was **_falling_**! You trusted _Gabriel_ more than you trusted _me_!” His voice broke, filled with pain and misery, and loneliness. He felt betrayed somehow, like Crowley had turned his back on him- And it _hurt_.

“I did something _careless_ and _irresponsible_ and _I’m sorry_ but- but _so did you_!” His cheeks were flushed with anger and pain, and it washed over him once again, like it had been waiting in the recesses of his mind to escape. Waiting to be unlocked by Crowley- who’s venomous love could sting as much as it could please.

“It isn’t _Heaven_ , Crowley! They’re not doing anything!” he cried, hot tears now spilling out of anguished eyes. “ _It’s God!_ ”

_Michael,_ and Crowley's rage turned cold. For a fraction of a second, one could see the remnants of an angel in him - the tempest of unbridled fury which cast shadows beneath a hollow mask, the severity that defined them. His wings withdrew slowly, sleek in the light as they folded neatly onto his back. A single feather stood out amidst the inky spread, dusted grey, though Crowley didn't see it.

" _Michael_ told you," he echoed. "And you believed what _Michael_ told you? _Anything_ that Michael told you?" the anger, which slowly worked its way back onto his face, into the sharp furrow of his brow and the sneer that curled his lip, was the same anger as always, the same anger that he persistently substituted for _hurt_ , masquerading in its place.

"I don't trust Gabriel. I wanted to _murder_ Gabriel," nothing about Crowley's tone suggested he was exaggerating. He moved to stand, taking a step back - he felt lightheaded, having been in the same position for so long, but visibly shook the sensation away. "I asked _God_ first," Crowley spat the name like a dirty word. "I _begged_ , Aziraphale, on my knees, for hours. She didn't answer."

"So I called on Gabriel - assumed, he's a bit daft, bit of a prick , but maybe - _maybe_ he'll actually be the sort to do his job. You know what he told me? He couldn't believe the _Almighty_ took the call. Pushed it right on through - couldn't offer any help, but She was happy to send an angel who _wouldn't_ right away. She didn't send him to help, but she still sent him. Why do you think that is?"

"And even then -- even _knowing_ ," Crowley continued, louder, "I still asked. I didn't attack him. I didn't provoke him," _much_ , "I asked him to _help_ , because I didn't know anyone else who might be able to." He leaned his weight into the nearest wall, sinking against it slightly. "It had nothing to do with not trusting you. I needed time. What was I going to tell you? 'Hey, Aziraphale, turns out God was really upset about the whole _consorting with a Demon_ bit, look what She sent along with your sword!'?"

Crowley fished the Blessed feather from his pocket and flicked it into the air between them.

Silence fell, a thick blanket over the room as the feather drifted toward the floor. The demon watched it as one might a dangerous creature that'd just made itself known.

"I couldn't - I can't - let you fall. I panicked," quieter, "but I would still do the same, I would still.. you don't _know_ , Aziraphale. You don't _know_ what it's _like_ , and you don't deserve it. I was trying to help. Recklessly, maybe, but with a reason." His eyes lifted back to him, searching. "What were you trying to do?"

Aziraphale’s face was twisted in anguish. His tears ran freely, eventually finding their way to his neck, some of them dripping from his chin onto his chest. As Crowley spoke more furiously, Aziraphale’s heart sank further, his sorrow more pronounced. He looked, and sounded, thoroughly _miserable_.

He couldn’t meet the demon’s gaze, out of guilt, and looked away. Looked anywhere other than the cold, furious eyes that seemed to see through him.

He, too, furled his wings, and the sickening pop of bones rearranging shattered the silence which engulfed the room. He fidgeted, uncomfortable with the thick, encumbering tension that felt crushed against his chest.

“I don’t know,” he whispered softly, almost pleading. “Leaving it to God, I suppose”. He knew it wasn’t a _good_ answer. It wasn’t what Crowley wanted to hear, needed to hear. It was selfish. But it was true.

He turned away from the demon. The angel pulled his knees to his chest, a self-soothing embrace, and let his head hang heavily.

It wasn't what Crowley wanted or needed to hear. Not in the slightest.

He wanted to go to him - to wrap him into his arms, comfort him, but the words left him frozen in place.

"Well," he stated eventually, voice hollow, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "I'm glad She was merciful."

The demon turned, and strode from the room - heading straight for the complimentary bottle of wine on the table. By the time he'd dropped onto the couch his wings were gone, the angelic countenance no more - just Crowley, tired, numb, drinking from a bottle he didn't have the energy to make tolerable.

Aziraphale stayed in the room, hugging himself, for quite some time. He let himself wallow in his misdeeds, let the tears and sobs escape uninhibited, let himself feel the heartache and the pain.

His body was weary, and his head was pounding. He needed to leave, needed to see anything other than these four white walls. Needed to be anywhere but here.

He heaved himself to his feet, unsteady but stable enough, and dressed in something more appropriate for a stroll. He kept it casual- a crisp white button up and dark trousers- taking a moment to dab the water from his eyes and compose himself.

When he felt capable, he left the room. He didn’t as much as glance at the demon on his way out. Though, not being a product of animosity- it was solely because he knew it would summon tears.

He felt the night air envelope him. Its coldness stung his skin, still weak and cool, but he appreciated a sensation other than heartbreak. With a lonely sigh, he began walking down the dirt path, which lead into the woods.


	11. And Reverse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains sensitive material [explicit sex]

Crowley'd drained the wine in record time, refilled as much as he could manage to drain it again. Even small feats were becoming more difficult, he observed, taking a moment to glare at the bottle. It was a problem - one he'd have to fix in short order, but he didn't have the will just then.

He glanced up as Aziraphale walked past, but said nothing. No longer sober, the notion that he'd done nothing wrong was more prominent than ever - and ever the stubborn fucker, he wasn't going to apologize. The demon swung his legs up onto the couch and continued to drink.

The wine diminished eventually, to a point he couldn't refill it, and he tossed the bottle haphazardly onto the floor. Aziraphale'd been gone for some time. He wanted to go out after him, to make sure he was safe, but his pride forbade him. Crowley rose from the couch, making his way to the small kitchen in the vague hope he'd be able to dig another bottle out of the cabinets. Maybe they kept it stocked. He rummaged for a while to no avail, narrowed eyes scouring for prospects - until they eventually settled on the table.

Two cups.

They must've had a nice catch-up.

He wondered what Michael had told him. What sort of interesting web she'd spun.

At least - he thought, in some far corner of his mind - at _least_ if Aziraphale was putting his faith in Heaven (Heaven and God were one in the same, to Crowley) he might not have to face Hell. It comforted him slightly - but mostly, it just twisted the knife that seemed to live in his gut.

He found no liquor - gave up after another unenthused glance around the room - and resigned himself to sprawling on the couch, waiting anxiously for Aziraphale's safe return.

Aziraphale wandered around, eventually finding the small road into town. Great Maplestead was a small, attractive village, with precisely one pub. Lucky for Aziraphale, it was open. He sat at the bar, sad and alone, and ordered a double whiskey. Several times, in fact.

To his delight, the pub served a small variety of country foods. When asked what he’d like to order, he simply told the waiter to ‘surprise him’. The waiter, assuming this lovely man had it in for a rough night, brought the finest comfort food Great Maplestead had to offer: Bangers and mash.

The townsfolk were as charming as the village. Aziraphale had a lovely chat with a rather interesting gentleman about theology. Proudly, Aziraphale had converted the atheist into an agnostic, and he felt a pleasant warmth tingling in the depths of his soul.

There was also a handsome young man who seemed to do everything in his power to stay close to the angel; every so often, offering a cigarette, or chiming into his conversation, recommending different types of food or drink. Aziraphale was enchanted with how friendly the humans were here.

When he was good and drunk, and thoroughly refreshed, he bid his farewell to new friends, and stumbled back to the cottage. His cheeks were rosy with alcohol and his grin reflected just how many double whiskeys he’d consumed. His hair and clothes were scented with a mixture of cigarettes and strangers’ cologne.

He entered the cottage happily, shutting the door quietly behind him- the lights were out, and he noticed it was quite late. He was, of course, feeling much more alive than earlier. The alcohol was buzzing joyfully in his system, protecting him from the distasteful events of the past few days.

Crowley couldn't even _sleep_. Every time he tried he recalled the stark realization - Aziraphale, cold on the floor and barely responsive. The anger was still there, but he'd nowhere to direct it but inward.

He felt as if he couldn't think clearly - suspected it was partially due to the fact that he'd done nothing to maintain his connection to Hell over the course of the past weeks. It wasn't as if he could just waltz through the door. Well... he could, but that would be a bigger risk than summoning Gabriel. He hadn't felt too inclined to do evil, and he most certainly wasn't going to ring anyone up and ask for an assignment.

The resulting mental fog made him irritable - more so than usual - quicker to anger, quicker to react, something more like the demon he was _supposed to be_. It was like a perpetual hangover he couldn't shake. It paired unfortunately with the real one which was slowly replacing his short-lived stupor.

The demon was still trying to register what'd happened. _Leaving it to God_. He found himself wishing the angel'd lied.

Crowley heard the door open, and idly turned his head to look - no defensiveness, no suspicion. Could've been Michael and he wouldn't have cared. Still, he relaxed when he saw Aziraphale - simply for the fact he'd made it back without incident.

"There's glass on the floor," he warned of the wine bottle, and draped an arm across his eyes.

There was a distinct _crunch_ underneath his shoe as Aziraphale navigated his way about the cottage in the darkness. “Found it!” he chimed with a drunken giggle, his voice particularly afflicted with an effeminate and musical intonation.

There were bumps and ‘oh my’s and ‘oh dear’s as he fumbled his way to the demon, and at one point something had fallen over. It sounded suspiciously like a chair, although the angel was nowhere near one.

He flopped on the couch next to the demon, doe-eyed and grinning happily. “Hello,” he smiled, gazing at the demon with devoted eyes, as if nothing terrible had happened that day, or any other day.

Crowley shut his eyes beneath his arm. He wasn't nearly drunk enough to level with Aziraphale in his current state - he could tell between the bumbling and the bar smell, which was almost overpowering even before he sat down.

There were so many things he could've said - wanted to say. So many things wrenched the wrong way in his spirit that he felt it might break at any moment. Aziraphale sounded like his usual self - a very drunk version, of course - happy and radiant in his light.

He inhaled deeply, exhaled, and made a conscious decision not to ruin it.

"Hi, angel."

As if 'terrible' didn't exist.

He let himself slide down, horizontally, until his head was resting in the demon’s lap. It was a somewhat obnoxious gesture, but he wanted to be closer. The day had been long and, somewhere in his subconscious mind, he knew it had been difficult. He wanted the comfort that only Crowley could provide.

“I missed you,” he admitted drunkenly, “Even though the pub was quite lovely, I wanted to come home and see you”. He had a bit of a pout, cutely tucked onto his bottom lip. He nuzzled himself closer, flashing an enamored smile up at the demon.

His hands wandered absentmindedly, and found themselves tracing around the buttons of Crowley’s shirt. Aziraphale took a deep breath, and any remaining tension his muscles carried had melted away.

“I _always_ miss you”, he sighed, dreamily.

Crowley finally drew the arm from across his eyes, sighing as he felt the angel settle into his lap. He peered down at him for a moment, blearily. Then he reached down and tangled the fingers of one hand into Aziraphale's hair, combing gently. Eventually he lowered the hand to cup his cheek for a moment, trying to brush that pout away with his thumb before he went back to stroking his hair.

"Tell me about the pub," he murmured, gaze softening as he watched him. Any of the sadness there, any of the anger was thoroughly buried, and all that remained was the usual hint of adoration that lingered whenever Aziraphale was present. It wasn't his fault. None of it was his fault - Crowley tried to remember that, to quell his own negativity.

"You weren't gone long enough to miss me -- besides, I'm sure you had more fun out there. Ran out of wine here ages ago," thus the mess on the floor. Crowley was hopeful the angel might take the hint and summon up some more - Satan knew he needed it.

His face lit up, practically throwing its own light into the darkness. He immediately chattered away, telling Crowley every single _excruciating_ detail about the pub. How the whiskey tasted, the bangers and mash, the atheist gentleman, the man with the cigarettes, and oh the humans were so friendly and so lovely and the walk was brusque but gorgeous… and… and…

Aziraphale relaxed into Crowley’s legs, contented and adored, enjoying the hands that were twirling his silvery blonde locks. His fingers had found their way to Crowley’s stomach now, after they’d undone a shirt button and slipped themselves under. Aziraphale’s conscious mind was not privy to their scandalous activities.

“There’s alcohol right there, love” he said, pointing to the coffee table. There were indeed several bottles of miracled wine. Not into existence, just into the living room from his bag. They were dry, tart reds; clearly not summoned for Aziraphale. One thing was absolutely certain: Crowley could have whatever he wanted.

Crowley listened to every excruciating detail, ever the masochist. He glared appropriately when Aziraphale spoke about the man with the cigarettes, and added a mental note to his list of _Potential Demonic Activity_.

He'd been dimly aware of Aziraphale's wandering hands from the moment they nudged at that first button, but now those warm fingers were set against skin and he inhaled sharply - an unintended reaction that left him holding his breath for a moment in the hope it would go unnoticed.

Aziraphale pointed out the alcohol and the demon's lips quirked. He reached carefully to snag one of the bottles by its neck, moving so as not to jar the angel from his position, and soon he was relaxing back into his seat with a hearty swig of wine. Absentmindedly, he traced the outer curve of the other's ear, traced downward to where the bruises had been the night before. Nothing but pale white, now.

He took another drink.

"I'll come with you next time. You can show me," it didn't much sound like Crowley's scene, but there'd been whiskey and food and it was better than the couch. Besides, there was nothing like a small town for drama - the people were always overly easy to rile.

The angel nodded happily. “It’d be absolutely delightful to show you, dear boy. Perhaps we can explore the village tomorrow?” He began chattering again, this time about the scenery, the farms, the architecture. His face was warm and flushed. It was a stark comparison to the Aziraphale from this morning- ashen, sodden, and lifeless. He was presently very animated, with a beaming smile and overly eager blue eyes. It was hard to imagine all the tears he’d cried just a few short hours prior. Hard to imagine the angel going through any type of tribulation whatsoever.

Aziraphale felt goosebumps rise, as the demon’s hands stroked the soft, delicate skin of his neck. For a brief, fleeting moment, he’d forgotten about the village, losing his place in their (very one sided) conversation. After a moment, he regained himself, and continued as if nothing was amiss.

His wayward hand found itself brushing against the waistband of Crowley’s pants, a fingertips breadth just underneath the barrier of fabric, caressing the warm, sensitive skin of his lower abdomen. The angel chatted happily all the while, ignorant to his own actions which were guided by a darker, more ambitious part of his mind.

"Dear boy?" Crowley scoffed. "We'll explore so long as you never call me that again. I've got to ruffle a few feathers, anyway," a polite way of saying he needed to make trouble. He'd rather avoid all the blood and ominous candles if he could.

Crowley wasn't entirely sure how the angel managed to do it. How he managed to make the seemingly easy transition from the broken spirit the demon'd spent all night guarding -- had probably broken further the next day. He winced to himself at the thought, and continued to manage his own impossible transition.

Aziraphale trailed off for a moment, and the demon tilted his head. He wasn't sure he'd ever heard his train of thought derail. He attempted to do it again, not even trying to feign innocence. His fingers trailed the same path, slightly curved this time to let nails catch the skin. They dug in lightly - unintentionally? - when the angel's fingers brushed beneath his waistband, lingering for a moment before continuing down to trace along the edge of his shirt collar.

He wasn't certain the angel even realized what he was doing. He imagined so, but he seemed quite invested in his story. Crowley couldn't help but play along.

Aziraphale once again lost his place in his detailed account of the village and surrounding area. It was brief, but more pronounced than the last interruption. The goose bumps had traveled all the way down his arm, causing the silvery hairs to stand on their ends. It gave him a slight chill, which cascaded down from his neck and shoulders, and he shuddered imperceptibly.

Before resuming his monologue, he glanced up at the demon and met his eyes. There was a brief flicker of _knowing_ in the angel’s gaze, accompanied by a darkening of the rosy flush on his soft cheeks. He became aware of the tension charging the air around them, like a thundercloud ready to burst.

There was a brief hesitation; his fingers trembled at the waistband of the demon’s pants, easing themselves higher, onto Crowley’s bare stomach, before they resumed their wayward wander. The touch was light, an exploratory feather against the demon’s abdominals.

He was slow to restart the conversation, and his voice was slightly strained until his breathing normalized. He repeated the last few things he’d mentioned prior, and seemed to have a great deal of difficulty regaining his concentration.

When the angel's words tapered off again, Crowley looked quite pleased with himself - as one often did when they discovered a new game they liked. The demon took another swig of wine, fingers trailing the fabric of that crisp white shirt until he'd taken the top button between thumb and forefinger, casually unfastening it.

His own breath came slow and even, a steady rise and fall beneath Aziraphale's fingertips. Crowley leaned back further, enough that his shoulders rested against the back of the couch, tempting the other with more room to explore. He knew he shouldn't - knew he had to stop, really, before anything went too far -- they'd gotten plenty of _signs_ they couldn't go too far, hadn't they?

But he was still pretending terrible didn't exist, still trying to bask in the moment.

"You already mentioned that," Crowley pointed out, helpfully. He was always happy to point out the rare occasion Aziraphale stumbled over his words, but now it came with the added benefit of pointing out just how flustered he was - indirectly, of course.

"Did you go anywhere else?"

“Y-yes, I suppose I did,” Aziraphale breathed, feeling his top button give way traitorously. Each was a domino, and there was a point at which it would be impossible to stop them all from tumbling in on each other. “So sorry,” he chuckled lightly, though it was mostly breath.

Slowly, their closeness oozed its way out of his subconscious mind, and squeezed into his waking thoughts. Aziraphale bit his lower lip, flattening his palm on the demon’s stomach as he gloriously outstretched his lithe, maddening frame. He brushed his hand across smooth skin and pointed bones, fingers splayed gratefully, and half-dragging his greedy, gripping fingertips.

His heart hammered violently in his chest, angry and expectant. He exhaled a trembling breath- a feeble attempt to conduct and harmonize both pulse and breath into a coherent rhythm. It didn’t work. It wasn’t even close to working.

“I-Well, I went to the… uh… pub…?” he stammered head tilting. Why did those words seem familiar?

Crowley's fingers continued downward, creeping along freshly exposed skin until the next button stopped them. This one he toyed with for a moment, taking the opportunity to splay the rest of his fingers against Aziraphale's chest beneath crisp fabric. He was so warm - the demon recalled the events of the morning, his chilled skin.

"A different pub?" he asked with feigned curiosity. Crowley's free hand lifted, lingered over the buttons of his own shirt. His eyes were drawn to Aziraphale's; he felt as if he couldn't look away, as if tethered by some divine power. The demon's eyes were half-lidded, hungry. "Or were you talking about the same one?"

He flicked the first button free, and after a momentary pause sent those fingers to cover Aziraphale's over his shirt, pressing them harder into his skin. "You can use your nails for that, angel," he tacked it on as casually, as if it were a coherent part of the conversation. Crowley was strangely relaxed - strangely more aggressive, but in a way he was finding he liked.

He liked watching his angel squirm.

“No, no…” the angel spoke, idly, distracted as if his mind were chewing on a complex calculation, and couldn’t be bothered to think of anything more mundane. His thoughts lagged as he became entranced by the predatory visage, feeling an exhilarating energy building inside of his chest.

The demon’s eyes were magnetic. He felt trapped in their gaze, like the serpent had purposefully hypnotized him. It seemed as if Aziraphale were prey. There was something he enjoyed about it, his mind slowly easing him into the pull of its temptation.

“It was the same pub” his words were languid, pulled out of the ether lazily, as if they had all the time in the world to be said.

“Same as before”, he whispered, terser this time, hungrily eyeing the button on the demon’s shirt, a sharp tense inhale as it was undone.

“But- I only went there, well, just the once, I mean”. He used his nails as if he’d been supernaturally commanded, moved by a will not his own. Mesmerized want began to build and it glittered in his pale blue eyes.

If Aziraphale were prey than Crowley was an apex predator who'd only just settled eyes on its meal, who stalked nearer and nearer, ravening.

He felt the angel's nails and arched beneath them, eyes blinking slowly shut. For a moment his hand moved with Aziraphale's, encouraging, willing him to fan the flames of want prickling their way across his skin. They'd reached his eyes by the time they reopened and Crowley plucked free the next button, making a point of smoothing the fabric open, exposing more of that pale skin.

He'd only had so many buttons fastened to begin with - between he and Aziraphale's continued efforts, there weren't many left. His chest and abdomen were exposed, the last button the only thing left barely supporting the taut bridge of fabric across his ribcage. He left it, watching Aziraphale expectantly as his opposite hand mirrored the action, slowly and purposefully working his way down the angel's shirt.

The demon was taking his time to feel every inch as it was exposed to him, lithe fingers tracing the curves of his ribs, down to his sides, mapping their way slowly across his abdomen from one to the other.

"Right, but - you never told me where else you went," it was just nonsense now, uttered without pause as if the conversation were still the height of the evening, and Crowley watched him, wolfish and expectant.

Aziraphale’s breath quickened, and he let himself become more and more exposed, the demon slowly felling the last remaining pieces of his self-control. His face was flushed, pink from alcohol and lust, and his eyes were watchful, waiting.

He eyed the remaining button, the bridge between two sides of cloth, and could resist it no longer. His fingers traced around it, hesitating before giving into the desire completely, and freed the cloth from its responsibilities. Aziraphale watched the fabric part with a diminutive whimper, frantic desire building within him.

He wanted to be preyed upon by the Serpent, to be consumed by lust, and to be hungrily devoured, coiled tightly is his grasp. His flesh shuddered beneath the demon’s touch, rippling with gratitude and yearning, tense with the anticipation of further stimulation.

“Somewhere else…? I don’t- I didn’t-I..” he was nearly breathless now. His eyes wandered along Crowley’s slender irresistible frame, and he bit his lower lip in reservation. His hands found themselves caressing the demon’s flesh cautiously. He savored the skin, sleek and warm, beneath his trembling, eager fingertips.

Aziraphale’s countenance betrayed his every wish, and his eyes pleaded for more. He was the prey; tantalized and captivated, unwilling and unable to resist.

Crowley's shirt fell open and he sighed at the satisfaction it gave him, flexed his shoulders slowly as if it'd been physically restraining him all this time. Mostly, the movement was for Aziraphale's sake, serpentine as skin stretched taut over muscle and bone.

He suspected he could manifest his own wine now.

The thought sparked shame in him - shame and a further sense of desire, and Crowley's tongue crept across his lower lip. He liked watching the angel give in to his desires, liked tempting him, _pushing_ him.

The hand on Aziraphale's stomach strayed dangerously low, the tips of his fingers nestling beneath the waist of his pants. He followed the curve of the fabric, smoothing in a firm arc from hip to hip. His thumb traced idle circles for a moment, nail rocking lightly into the skin before he withdrew the hand entirely. It came to rest upon the angel's clothed thigh; Crowley pressed his fingers in with near-bruising force, a sharp squeeze before he palmed his way down to Aziraphale's knee.

"You know we aren't supposed to do this," but he'd yet to stop.

A slight groan of desire erupted from his lips as the demon traced around his hips. He dug his nails into the demon’s ribs, overcome with want. He ached with longing, and fell into it, let it consume him. Its dark energy tore through him, made him mad, wavering his soul on the edge of wild lust.

He was all but panting now, his chest visibly heaving, breath laced with expectation. The excitement flowed through his body, burned into his mind, and he felt it stir below his belt. He yearned to move closer, to kiss the demon’s lips, bite and suck on the skin of his throat. But he mustn’t. He wanted to be caught, wanted to be devoured, to be ravaged.

“We can do _anything_ we want.” he coaxed, eyes begging the serpent to strike, to take all that he wanted and more.

"I'm still upset with you," but the words came in a way that suggested they wouldn't necessarily prove a deciding factor in how things proceeded - just that they _might_. His breath hitched at the tail end of the statement, when Aziraphale's nails dug into his skin; he reacted more visually than was strictly necessary, head falling back to rest against the couch for a moment.

His hand moved to the other thigh, and Crowley all but shoved Aziraphale's leg against the back of the sofa, forcing his legs to part. "I don't know if it's the best time," as if he were still contemplating it, as if he wasn't dragging his hand lasciviously up his thigh, pausing every so often to knead at soft skin through the material, sometimes with force enough to mark.

He was coiled, ready, toying with his prey.

There was an amusement that danced with the desperate lust in Aziraphale’s eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched- a shadow of a smile. It was a look that was only ever given in secret, to those lucky few who’d been delicious enough for the angel to bite. He, too, was poised for the hunt, not unlike a bird of prey, watchful and patient, should his aggressor discover a lack of courage in the intensity of the moment. This was a game that Aziraphale was all too happy to play… for now.

He bit his lower lip, stifling a moan, enjoying the hands on his thighs, aching for them. He met the demon’s eyes- his gaze wild with lust and frenzied passion and desperation, and a glimpse something darker, a hidden knowledge of their dance, a glimmer of _knowing_.

Breathily, he inquired, eyes glittering as if he was about to take the first bite of a long awaited dessert, “How can I change your mind?”

Aziraphale knew the rules of these games- when they’d started, they’d already been won.

"You'd have to make me forget about it," he murmured lowly, eyes flaring as he registered the shade of that same dark look in the other's. It sent an abrupt chill down his spine, one he basked in as it flared through his limbs, prickled out onto his skin in the form of risen goosebumps.

Crowley purposefully allowed his fingers to brush the front of the angel's trousers, as if it were an accidental touch on the way to address their button. He nudged it free, and for the first time his gaze left Aziraphale's, drank in the sight of his bare torso, tinged red with alcohol and desperation.

"There's always penance," the corner of his mouth ticked upward, wickedly. His fingers were worming their way beneath fabric, now, gently slipping under the band of his underwear, though offered no substantial touch to relieve him.

His breath came heavier now, and Crowley indulgently passed a hand down his own torso, fiery eyes flitting back to Aziraphale's. "Forty days, forty nights... I could just make you wait."

A gentle, tortured sigh escaped his lips, and he delighted in being at the mercy of the demon’s sensual cruelty. It was maddening, pushing him over the edge, and the frustrating tension was superb. He was possessed by the serpent’s eyes. He savored the look of hunger and power staring back at him, tempting him, daring him to take more.

“I could make you forget,” he said softly, partly a statement, more so an offering. Aziraphale raked his nails down the demon’s ribs, enjoying the temptation, relishing in it. Hips firmly in his grasp, as he edged himself closer, he brushed his lips against the demon’s lower stomach, testing his reaction.

“You could make me wait…” he sighed, breath trembling against the serpent’s skin. The angel let out a groan of pleasure and frustration, feeling the demon’s hands teasing, exploring. Aziraphale teased his tongue along the bone of Crowley’s hip, kissing the hollow upwards, back to his stomach, hungrily staring into his eyes all the while. “...but would you?”

Finally, the demon loosed a quiet groan - it escaped between clenched teeth, unbidden, at the feel of the angel's nails, the delightful warmth that bloomed in their wake alongside dark red marks.

There was another sharp inhalation, quiet, when Crowley registered the brush of Aziraphale's lips against his stomach. He flexed his hips slightly, an undeniably lewd gesture that curled through the rest of his form, tensely-wound and wanting.

"I should," he muttered, nails grazing the soft flesh beneath his navel. "You'd deserve it," he reasoned, as if he were trying to convince himself. But Crowley was a demon, first and foremost - not exactly a bastion of self control. "You should try to convince me, angel."

The words left him in a velvety purr, and Crowley unfastened the button on his own jeans, let his fingers delve beneath, pointed, as if it were an opportunity he was stealing from him.

The angel relished the power, the command. He wasted no time, self-control splintering away, and he swooped in like an eagle with its talons raised. He swung himself upright and grabbed the demon’s hands, as if in punishment.

“ _Mine_ ,” he commanded testily into the demon’s ear, tossing Crowley’s hands aside with a force previously unknown to the demon. Aziraphale climbed onto his lap, straddling him, pinning Crowley to the back of the couch with his body. “ _All mine_ ”.

The angel’s movements were aggressive- practiced. He teased the skin at his throat and neck, pleasantly painful at times, leaving dark purple bruises, and kissed his lips with a ravenous passion. He moaned in delicious pleasure as his tongue explored the demon’s mouth- fervid, hot, and wanting.

Aziraphale’s hands made their way down the demon’s body, slowly but firmly, slipping themselves between the fabric of his pants and underwear. He teased the demon through his clothes, rubbing gently, a contrasting sensation to his frenzied, forceful lips.

_All mine_ ,

That was all it took.

Aziraphale pinned his hands and the demon felt the last threads of his own self control, already frayed with six thousand years of covetous torment, burnt to ash beneath his angel's grasp.

The angel loomed above him, beautifully ferocious and _certain_ , and Crowley groaned beneath the heat of his lips, the bite of his teeth and the luscious sensation of bruises sucked into pale skin, prominent even in the darkness of the room.

He might have been surprised by the display, might have been overcome by it, but he'd played it out in his head so many hundreds of times that by now it was just _inevitability_ and he relished in it, meeting Aziraphale's lips with an equally starved fervor, desperate to taste him, to consume him whole in the same fire which burned violently bright beneath his skin.

Crowley's hips rose shamelessly against Aziraphale's hands, a silent demand for _more_ but he didn't waste time waiting for acquiescence. The fingers of one hand buried themselves into Aziraphale's hair and he yanked his head back by whitened strands, lips smearing lewdly along his jaw, down his neck as the other hand tore at his shirt, threw it carelessly to the floor.

The same hand flattened to the small of Aziraphale's back and soon his fingers coiled half beneath the waistline of his pants, vicelike in their grip which dragged him nearer, hips waiting to meet him in an unhurried roll.

His lips scorched a heated trail over the other's skin, down over his collarbone, his chest. Crowley leaned forward and bent the angel back, eyes fogged in their salacious haze flitting up to meet Aziraphale's. His tongue passed, almost incidentally, over a nipple - warmth followed in short order by deliciously sharp pain as he worried risen skin between his teeth.

If he'd any inhibitions they had gone, fled him alongside rational thought and been replaced by seemingly insatiable longing, the urgent need to quell it.

The angel let out a deep, throaty groan, smirking, as the demon pulled his hair back to feast on his neck. He was pleased by the forcefulness and desperation of the action, knowing it would now only be a matter of time before the demon would become his. He met Crowley’s gaze and felt the electric heat between them. Aziraphale’s eyes were crazed, glittering with bestial wants and the knowledge of having the power to take them.

Nothing mattered or existed in this moment, save the aching in his cock, and Crowley’s enthusiastic reciprocation edged him further into his savage, insatiable lust. Concerned with neither Heaven nor Hell, he silently dared them to look upon them in their passionate debauchery.

The angel began to tease down his chest, kissing and biting his way over Crowley’s ribs. He delighted in the slim figure being underneath him, responding to his whim and will. He slid off of his lap, poising between the demon’s legs now, his own resting on the floor beneath him.

Aziraphale continued to kiss and suck and bite his way down to the slender hips which were so desperately eager to meet his mouth, slowly tugging the demon’s pants free, coaxing them to rest around Crowley’s knees. In his sadism, he kept the underwear in place, rubbing against them with wicked pleasure.

He drug his nails against bare thighs, returning his mouth to hips, stopping to brush along the front of the demon’s underclothes along the way. His mouth, hot and welcoming, sloppily teased the demon’s hips and inner thighs. Aziraphale held a hip down with one hand, and teased the last remaining piece of cloth that separated their skin’s touch with the other. He bit against the soft, delicate skin on the demon’s inner thigh, sucking a bruise into the pale, creamy flesh.

Crowley was fast learning just how much he liked _listening_ to Aziraphale. Not quite so much as looking at him, he decided, following the path of his descent with eyes glinting gold in the dark.

The demon parted his thighs, unabashed, and drank in the sight of the angel kneeling between them. He couldn't look away - not from the sight of Aziraphale, always so virtuous and pure and the implication of what lewd acts would follow as his mouth trailed reddened marks between his hips. In a distant corner of his mind still capable of rationality, he hoped they'd last. He'd bask in them thoroughly later.

His skin was flushed, warming by the second beneath the angel's ministrations. Crowley's hips lifted easily as the other tugged at his jeans, loosing a somewhat ragged sigh as the denim slid coarsely over dark underwear, sending a ripple of pleasure through his form. It was amplified a moment later as Aziraphale teased him through the fabric, which was already tellingly damp, betraying the extent of his need.

Crowley felt the caress of warm breath that accompanied the brush of Aziraphale's lips and his hips rocked fluidly, desperate to chase that sensation. Desire pounded through him, urgent and demanding, reflecting in the ever-tightening grip on the angel's hair. Aziraphale held him down, and it earned a low groan of frustration that quickly edged into one of pleasure as he bit at sensitive skin. Crowley's own nails raked Aziraphale's scalp, encouraging.

He free hand wandered across his own chest with the angel out of its reach, stroking, pinching, occasionally stilling in the distraction of the pleasure the other provided him, digging half-moon welts into skin. He strained to meet every touch, shifting ceaselessly yet barely at all, somehow managing to allow even the tiniest movements to encompass the entirety of his lithe form. He loved the teasing, and loved being on display even more.

Aziraphale felt Crowley shifting and squirming beneath him, wriggling with agonizing pleasure. It was enticing, filling his mind with fantasies of other pleasures involving the demon underneath his weight. The angel shivered, his entire body burning with desire and arousal, patiently waiting for the moment to ripen.

Aziraphale gradually coaxed the underwear down Crowley’s slim legs, letting the fabric drag slowly and excruciatingly against the demon’s sensitive skin. Blue eyes locked onto the serpent’s golden ones, unwavering. Again, he began licking and kissing his inner thighs, and explored Crowley’s pubis, gently dancing his fingers closer to his ache. He had no intentions of satisfying the demon, not until he begged for it, suffered for it, _needed_ it.

He grabbed each of the demon’s thighs, kissing along the crevice of hip and inner thigh, dragging his tongue and lips along it, tantalizing promises of what was to come. Aziraphale moaned against him slightly, letting the vibrations tickle their way into Crowley’s lusty madness. His breath was measured and controlled, finding peacefulness and strength in the methodical, sensual torture.

What began as a display for Aziraphale's benefit slowly began to unravel into something more urgent, more desperate. His hips twitched beneath the touches, the heat of his mouth searing over sensitized skin, and Crowley could only think of where it _wasn't_ as he writhed in his hold.

The demon's brow furrowed in a mix of something between pleasure and impatience, the two clashing on his features in ever-worsening frustration. He was starved for him, so near satiating the need that had burned within him for millennia that it was maddening, a sharp hunger that made itself known in shallow, near ragged breaths and bitten back groans, the first of which died stubbornly in his throat until he no longer had the presence of mind to contain them.

Even the sight of him was nearly too much, his soft features tinged in a carnal darkness, a note of sadism that sent a tremor through his form. He felt suspended in an unreal haze that fogged his mind, dulled his perception to anything but the angel between his legs, intent in his torment to the point Crowley thought it might actually break him.

He'd never wanted anything more.

"Aziraphale," he ground out, thickly, and even he didn't know if it were a demand or a prayer for reprieve, laced with the same wanton lust that dominated his gaze. A leg wound across his back so much as the confines of his jeans allowed, urging.

The angel wasn’t satisfied yet and it sparked wickedness in his soul. Crowley had to plead for it, cry out for it, and be willing to do anything for it. He _would_ beg, and Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to see him deliciously, and thoroughly, _broken_. Only then would he alleviate the demon’s suffering, satiating his own desires in the process.

“Yes, love?” he whispered in a raspy, strained voice, letting the sensation of his breath float across Crowley’s aching cock. The angel grabbed him where hip met inner thigh, one hand on each side, his grip firm and domineering.

He brushed his lips up Crowley’s shaft with light, tormenting kisses, feeling the demon quiver beneath him. Every so often he would bless him with a lap of his tongue, finding the best spots to kindle the restless, unrelenting misery.

Aziraphale was mad with lust, throbbing with it. His breathing became quicker, his own need becoming painfully intense, manifesting itself as a rougher grasp and a growing sensation of sadistic aggression.

Crowley's arm was draped loosely across his abdomen, nails dug sharply into his own side in some vague effort to ground himself - he barely even registered the pain, too lost in the angel's torturous game to spare it a shred of attention.

His hips jolted at the first touch of Aziraphale's lips, and Crowley swore to himself as his head tilted back, following the impossibly tense arch of his spine. Every muscle ached for how tightly wound he was, had been for minutes now, and he felt every inch of his body scream for contact, for release, the anticipation at the notion of it sending another mild shiver through his frame.

"Aziraphale, _please_ -"

He felt Aziraphale's hands tighten and groaned through clenched teeth, not bothering to quiet himself.

He didn't care. Needed him, fingers roving aimlessly, pleadingly through his hair, brushing the side of his face and he forced himself to meet his eyes again, his own smoldering against the other's colder blue stare, entranced and wanting.

"I can't wait anymore," the words were a breathless rush, the last scraps of coherence he could muster in the midst of such delicious torture. He couldn't think. Could barely speak, just wanted Aziraphale, atop him, around him, impossibly close, whatever the angel might deign to grant him.

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered. He loved it, thrived on it, on hearing the demon beg for _him_ , needing _him_ so desperately that his usual coolness crumbled into breathy moans and frantic pleas. Aziraphale was equally tortured now, hips rocking slightly but expectantly. His self-control deteriorated, eased itself to the edge of madness. And when the demon broke, he too, was broken.

Suddenly the angel was upon him, their clothes miracled hastily away, their cocks slick with oil. He met the demons mouth hungrily, with a savage ferocity of lust, tongue exploring as if it’d never get enough. Slight whimpers escaped his lips, betraying his own painful, frenzied ache.

He began stroking Crowley, lightly at first, responding to the demon’s want, matching the pace to be slightly slower than he needed, slightly maddening, still wickedly enjoying Crowley’s torment.

The angel was biting at his throat now, sucking the reddened skin raw. He was trembling, unraveling, his own eyes matching the demon’s pleading gaze. He needed him, would do anything to have him. Would take him.

He pushed himself into Crowley, crying out with a guttural groan of euphoric pleasure, the demon’s tight warmth stripping his last shreds of composure away. His hips rocked gently, but steadily, eventually finding a rhythm that would make up for 6000 years of longing. The ecstasy was overwhelming, grunts and moans ripping themselves from his lungs unhindered.

Crowley'd rarely found himself on the receiving end of such torment; he delighted in it, but - perhaps by demonic nature - tended to excel at inflicting it, which meant he often fell naturally into the role. Aziraphale assuming it so easily was a surprise - a _pleasant_ one - and the demon was still lost in the fog of it when the angel's weight sunk into him.

Something snapped - the spell broken, the restraint wound through him by Aziraphale's unspoken commands no longer a necessity, and the demon's furious hunger consumed him all at once.

He claimed a shuddering breath, nails raking his own skin as he loosened the white-knuckled hold in favor of coiling that arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. The angel kissed him and he bit sharply at his lower lip, a brief reprimand for making him wait, nails dragging roughly over the notches of his spine.

Aziraphale's hand around his cock tore a low growl from his throat and he rocked to meet it, coiled his legs around him as his own lips smeared messily toward the angel's ear. He wanted him to hear the broken groan of his name, all breath and reverence when Aziraphale entered him, wanted him to hear the lewd moans and murmurs that escaped between sharp bites and flickers of tongue ( _ruin me, angel, make me yours_ ).

The movements were carnal and unrestrained as Crowley snaked his hips up to meet Aziraphale's, moving with him, coaxing him through unhinged motions which had no business being half as graceful as they were. Sharp red scratches bloomed over the pale skin of the angel's back, none of them too harsh, too violent - he was still being _careful_ , mindful of every reaction, every hitched breath and moan to better learn what his angel liked, what he didn't, adjusting as he went along.

Eventually, Crowley moved - didn't part from him, just shifted them both with surprising strength to force Aziraphale roughly against the back of the couch. The ferocity was a product of his impatience, and the other had cultivated it well. His eyes locked on Aziraphale's, all but unhinged as he straddled him, undulated in his lap, painfully slow. He savored the look on his angel's face, teasing him like that a moment longer before his movements quickened into a constant and sensual rhythm.

He claimed another messy kiss, groaning into the exchange. His eyes lidded shut in overt rapture - six thousand years he'd waited to devour him, to be devoured, to be _his_ and he knew nothing else in Heaven or in Hell that compared, knew he'd wait six thousand years more if he could experience even a shred of the same pleasure again.

"Aziraphale," it was a breath between them, half against his lips, a repeated mantra that unraveled further with every utterance.

The angel threw his head back in ecstasy, groaning as the demon pushed him into the back of the couch. It was torturous as he teased him with slow, deliberate motion. Aziraphale, only letting slip a few moans prior to this new position, was very vocal now. The building pleasure rang in his voice, deep and throaty, a different type of raspy music compared to his usual singsong. His blue eyes were euphoric, filled with passionate indulgence.

His back arched, as the demon worked faster now, Aziraphale’s nails clawing his back towards his ribs violently, unhindered, red droplets blooming along their path. The satisfaction was intense, overwhelming. The delirious pleasure was twisted into his face, laced in each ravenous kiss. He never wanted it to end. He wanted Crowley to fuck him forever, just like this, hitting all the right spots in all the right ways, but he felt his climax coiling inside, dangerously close to release.

The sensation was nearly unbearable now; the demon tempting him to his edge. Aziraphale found himself gasping the demon’s name, nails digging into the flesh of his back, vociferous grunts escaping his throat as he savored the carnal delights of their union.

He lifted the demon, wrapping his arms underneath his hips, hoisting them up together. The coffee table was miraculously flung aside, and it smashed into the opposite side of the room thunderously. The wood splintered and glass wine bottles shattered noisily, accompanied by the sound of liquid dripping onto the floor. He was frantic now, pleasure blinding him to everything but the demon wrapped, torrid and constricting, around his throbbing, aching cock. Aziraphale shoved Crowley against the wall, hips pumping with renewed vigor.

The angel was glistening with sweat and bliss. He bit the demon’s lower lip roughly, drawing blood, only to kiss and lick it away. A desperate fervor overcame him, tormenting him with this exquisite, boundless pleasure.

He fucked Crowley hard against the wall, cried his name in ecstasy, made it known that he’d been waiting for this for so unbearably long, and after a while, he found a familiar building sensation tingling within him.

He lowered the demon, forcing him onto all fours savagely, nearly shouting with pleasure as he reentered him, stroking the demon’s cock in earnest, matching the tempo which best suited his liking, determined to feel Crowley’s release before enjoying his own. It was pure, delicious agony, and the angel was so close, so on edge, he wanted to give into it, wanted to explode inside the demon’s welcoming body.

Crowley spat curses as the stinging heat of those scratches bloomed out from the source, the pain lending a sharpened sense of urgency to the pleasure, intertwining in a way that nearly drove him mad as he sucked appreciative kisses into Aziraphale's skin. His neck, his shoulder, his chest were dotted with bite marks and bruises where the demon's self control had faltered, where the want to leave him something to _remember_ had grown too powerful, the want to mark him as his own.

Aziraphale was lifting him and Crowley's limbs wound around him, automatic, unflinching as the table crashed across the room. His focus was on Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone, on the dull warmth building in his abdomen and spidering outward, thrumming by the second toward an inevitable end for which he wasn't yet prepared.

His muscles clenched when Aziraphale forced him to the wall, and Crowley jolted forward as his wings burst forth around them - intentionally or not was hard to say from the way they curled around the angel with such immediacy, shoving him nearer without regard for the fact he was already impossibly close.

He tasted blood between them and a darkly indulgent haziness masked his eyes, a smear of red across his lower lip that bled to the corner of his mouth when Aziraphale licked it away. He chased his tongue, loosing something that bordered a _whimper_ ; he goaded him with enticing, borderline nonsensical murmurs, continual demands for _more_ and _harder_ and endless expletives panted against the angel's ear.

There was a longer groan of something that bordered on disbelief when Aziraphale forced him to his knees, wings limp and dusting the floor to either side of him. The red, some glistening, marks on his back twisted with every subtle movement, contrasted sharply against the backdrop of pale skin as Crowley rocked back to meet him. His own head hung forward, forearms flat to the floor beneath him; he was nearly overcome with pleasure, unable to think past the heat pooling in his abdomen, threatening to overflow-

And then it did.

Crowley loosed a strangled gasp of the other's name. His forehead, slick with sweat settled into the crook of his wrist on the floor, upper body slackening and sinking lower as he was overcome. His hips jolted out of rhythm, unbidden, every muscle clenched in the wake of intense waves of pleasure, racking his thin frame.

Crowley didn't need God. Crowley had Aziraphale, and he'd given him absolution.

Aziraphale felt the demon’s internal quivering, beckoning him to give into the pleasure, to find his satisfaction. He moaned, loud and wanton, feeling the come flooding his fingers, enjoying the demon bucking and writhing beneath him in glorious release.

Aziraphale, having fulfilled his partner’s needs, began to quicken his pace, which now became a pounding, tormented rhythm. It was rough and needy, begging for the salvation to overtake his agonizingly prolonged torture.

He felt his orgasm build, coaxing and teasing its release with each thrust into Crowley’s receptive body. His hands held the demon’s hips firmly, nails digging into flesh. Aziraphale felt his abdominals tense, felt the heat and pleasure and ecstasy rise. He cried out in blissful salvation, head thrown back in luxurious fulfillment, surrendering himself entirely to the lust and tension, feeling a pleasant spasm in his cock as his seed spilled inside the demon.

His breath was heavy and labored, and he leaned forward to kiss the demon between his wings. He noticed, to his delight and surprise, a single grey feather swimming in the sea of blackness. He said nothing, not now, not after this Divine ordeal, but made a mental note for the near future.

He lingered inside, enjoying the intimacy, and it was with great sorrow that he untangled their bodies. Enjoying their sloppy mess and heavy scent for a while longer, he didn’t bother miracling them clean. He enjoyed their bruising and fluids and filth, which was the furthest possible thing from Heaven. He pulled the demon into his arms, spooning him in a tender, satisfied embrace with a contented sigh.

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s neck with affectionate tenderness, rubbing his back and wings and the curve of his neck with a gentle hand.

“I love you,” he whispered into the demon’s ear. His voice was soft and low, and slightly hoarse. “More than anything”.

Crowley continued to move with him, dragging out the moment, awash in the sensation of Aziraphale inside him with a mind no longer so wholly consumed by his own desire. He wanted to look, wanted to _see_ him, but he settled for listening instead, lips curving into a tired, fulfilled smile as the angel followed him over the edge, cried out, a sound he committed to memory the moment he heard it, filed away amidst everything else _Aziraphale_.

Slowly, the demon's body eased its way to the floor. He basked in the warmth of the angel above him, the scent, the dulling waves of pleasure slowly replacing themselves with the ache of bruises and sting of rough scratches that littered his form. He luxuriated in the pain, in the contrasting gentle brush of Aziraphale's lips between his wings.

The demon was practically limp as Aziraphale drew him into his arms, a sweaty, sticky mess of ruffled feathers and heat, but he nestled closer all the same. His mind hadn't made its way back to him yet - he didn't want it to, wanted to stay in the moment that was so close to perfect, plagued by none of his usual anxieties.

He felt whole.

It was unfamiliar, and transcendent, and he wanted to hold onto it for as long as he could.

His wings twitched slightly beneath the gentle touch, but he was quick to relax again when Aziraphale spoke. He inhaled deeply as the words settled over him, igniting a new warmth in his chest, one that was rather less sinful.

He still felt strange, saying the words. He'd spent so much of his existence willing himself not to; they still stuck in his throat, vicious and aching with the unending depth of the emotion behind them. Crowley reached blindly for one of the angel's hands, coiled fingers cupping it firmly to his chest, over the rapid thrum of his heart.

Though his reply went unspoken, he hoped Aziraphale heard it.


	12. Tied to the End of Your String

Aziraphale smiled to himself, feeling the demon’s heart beating underneath his fingertips. He was relaxed and complete in a way that only sex could inspire, and it had been _so_ long since the last time.

He kissed along Crowley’s back, his lips throwing a warm, healing light onto the demon’s skin, erasing some of the scratches he’d created in his throes of passion. On some level he felt guilty for creating the small pains, yet on another he felt proud, possessive.

After lying there together awhile, basking in each other’s radiance, enjoying the serene afterglow of a good shag, he broke the silence.

“I’m going to take a shower now, love”. He wasn’t sure if the demon showered- rather, he imagined he would miracle the grime away. He knew Crowley didn’t enjoy the more mundane tasks of human life, besides sleeping of course.

He slowly untangled their bodies, feeling a slight embarrassment at his naked body, which Crowley had never seen before. It felt unusual, being together like this, so close and intimate. They’d spent six thousand years building walls between them. Though it took six thousand years to build them up, it only took one moment of drunkenness to tear them down.

When he was free of the demon, he went into the bathroom. He opened the shower curtain, happy to see his preferred bath products (of which there were many) and he stepped into water that was miraculously a perfect temperature. Although Aziraphale enjoyed daily human life, there were limits to his patience, such as carrying things, waiting in lines, or even running out of marshmallows. Simply intolerable.

He sighed, letting the water wash over his body, stinging the bruises and claw marks that littered his form. Although they were somewhat uncomfortable, he _liked_ them, and so he didn’t miracle them away.

Crowley was loathe to let him go, gripped his hand a bit tighter for a moment before relenting, knowing the moment had to reach its end eventually.

He shifted languidly, turning to face him, to watch him depart. The demon shared none of his embarrassment - he was perfectly comfortable to lounge there on full display, taking the time to stretch, even his wings expanding to their full extent once he'd pushed himself upright.

Briefly, he considered following Aziraphale - but he supposed the other wanted his time in the shower to collect his thoughts. Crowley ignored the first, slight ripple of anxiety that flared in his gut, refusing to acknowledge it, to let it take root.

He stood, still gloriously nude, and flexed his shoulders - a scowl flashing across his face as he registered the diminished sting, realizing the angel must have healed him. He'd known it was inevitable, but he'd at least wanted the chance to see. Crowley ran a hand through his mussed hair, which miraculously slicked back into its usual style, and glanced about the room.

He supposed he'd take care of the cleanup (but not before taking a photo; he wanted to commemorate the occasion).

By the time Aziraphale was done, the room would be back in its original spotless condition - no spilled wine, no broken glass, table just where it should be. Crowley was sprawled on the sofa, lying with his head on the arm, wine bottle in hand looking for all the world like he owned the place. He had, indeed, cleaned himself up too, and retracted his ruffled wings - though he hadn't bothered with clothes. One last chance to see the angel flustered, but mostly he just didn't care enough to bother.

He looked more himself, distinctly rejuvenated and wholly relaxed as he sipped his wine.

Aziraphale enjoyed the hot water steaming his skin, the slight pang of wounded flesh, the scents washing away after their exquisite time together. When he was finished with his hygiene routine, he wrapped himself in a plush cream-colored bathrobe. It covered him well enough, but left an exposed chest, blotted with purple bruises and pink scratches. He smiled at the sight of them, still enjoying the memento.

He shuffled his way into the kitchen, white slippers dragging on the carpet, and put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea. He eyed Michael’s cups warily, not daring to touch them or whisk them away, as if they were contaminated with something dangerous. He waited for the kettle, humming to himself happily, still shining with sex’s afterglow.

When his cup of tea was prepared, he took it back into the living room, placing his cup on the table to cool. He blushed at the sight of Crowley, lounging gloriously and shamelessly naked, and he averted his eyes. Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and a thin blanket appeared, covering the demon’s lap. Still blushing slightly, he curled up next to the demon, laying his head on his chest affectionately.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the grey feather, trying to make sense of the situation. Crowley didn’t seem any holier- and, considering what they’d just done to each other- he was likely less so than before. He didn’t pretend to know the inner workings of the demon’s mind, but Crowley didn’t seem to have faith in God either. He furrowed his brow, lost in these thoughts, tea cooling to room temperature all the while.

"Really?" Crowley lofted a brow at the appearance of the blanket, but left it grudgingly in place as Aziraphale settled onto the sofa with him. "You've seen it all now, angel. There's nothing to hide," the words were gentle, teasing but affectionate.

He tilted his head, nosing a faint kiss into his angel's hair. He was blissfully unaware of the new... problem? that had presented itself, simply content to wrap himself around the other, dragging him into the same protective hold he so often did, now that he _could_. Every time he took him in his arms it seemed as if he anticipated someone trying to tear him away, as if he might never have the chance again - even in his currently relaxed state.

"It sounds like you had a fun time at the pub," he drawled into his hair, as if he'd finally heard the end of the story. His fingers rubbed slow circles over his nape, lazy in his ceaseless affections.

Aziraphale leaned into the other, content to be in his arms, mind still chewing on the mysterious grey feathers that they were both acquiring. He’d forgotten about the tea already, occupied with his doubts and worries, and it was starting to become cold.

He closed his eyes, a faint smile on his lips. He enjoyed Crowley’s affections. The touching, the acts of service. It was always a welcomed warmth in Aziraphale’s otherwise barren life. He enjoyed Earth, with all its books and foods and comforts. But he would enjoy it a lot less if Crowley wasn’t somewhere on it. Throughout the years, sometimes it was enough to know he was out there, _somewhere_ , and it often filled the lonely void with which Aziraphale’s soul so often suffered.

“Hm? Oh,” he chuckled, smiling sweetly at _his_ demon, though slightly distracted, “oh, yes. Lovely pub. We ought to go there together someday. I’ll introduce you” _as my_ _boyfriend_ , he conveniently left out.

"You know I don't like _socializing_ ," Crowley muttered, resting his head back to the arm of the couch once more. Though his eyes were lidded, he'd no intention of falling asleep. He wasn't likely to for some time.

He noticed, of course, that Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten his tea. It wasn't all that unusual for the angel - he had a bad habit of preparing a mug only to lose himself in a book or a particularly meandering train of thought, and Crowley'd heard him complain about it too many times not to recognize the tragedy waiting to happen. He wondered what was on his mind, delicately running his fingers through the angel's hair.

The tea stayed pleasantly warm.

"I can drink and brood while you socialize, give you some wiles to thwart. Good times all around, yeah?"

The angel let out a relaxed sigh, closing his eyes and enjoying the hands running through his hair. He always felt calmer with Crowley around, no matter the circumstances or enemies they’d faced. The demon had a way of teasing out his bad moods and anxieties, leaving only goodness. He put the feathers out of mind for now, resting in his lover’s arms, enjoying the rare moment of peace and quiet in their chaotic lives.

“Mm. I know you don’t like socializing, dear, but what if I want to show you off? Besides, I don’t have to thwart your wiles anymore. We’re on _our_ side, if you do recall.”

Of course Crowley recalled. Unbeknownst to Aziraphale until quite recently, the demon had been saying it for hundreds of years. Possibly even thousands. He felt guilty for not noticing, and at times downright ignoring, the demon’s admissions of love for all of six thousand years. Though, he reasoned, it did make for spectacular sex.

"You can show me off from afar while you socialize. I'll be sure to look ravishing," stated with a mild eyeroll. If Crowley had the option, he'd likely avoid socializing with anyone but Aziraphale for the rest of eternity. The thought earned a quiet, longing sigh.

"You don't have to thwart if you don't want to. I've still got to make trouble, though. Went a bit too long without, I think," his fingers lingered in one spot for a moment, working through a mild tangle that'd caught them, then went back to stroking his hair. He tried not to let his pleasure at the mention of their side show too much - though his arm did tighten around the angel, considerably.

" _Recall_ \- Of course I recall - in what world _wouldn't_ I recall? You're the one who took ages to figure it out," he chided with mild offense, a hint of _I-told-you-so_ lingering in his tone. It'd taken Aziraphale a long time to catch on, but Crowley hadn't minded the wait - in fact, he'd resigned himself, after a point, to assuming it would never end. Without the threat of Armageddon, he was fairly certain it still wouldn't have.

His brow furrowed petulantly at the thought.

Aziraphale smiled to himself. Sometimes it seemed as if Crowley was put on this Earth for him and him alone. Although it wasn’t true, he silently gave his gratitude to God for creating such a marvelous creature. And, of course, he tacked on a quick prayer- on behalf of the demon’s damned soul.

The angel suddenly recalled his tea, which had sat ignored for too long as usual, and a pout slowly formed on his lips. He picked up the cup, with a delightful ‘oh!’, and his face brightened as he realized it was still quite warm. He mouthed a wordless ‘thank you’ to the demon before taking a delicious first sip.

After enjoying his tea for a while, he placed his cup back onto the table. Aziraphale nuzzled closer still, and with closed eyes, safe in the demon’s arms, felt that maybe- just maybe- he could sleep.

The look on Aziraphale's face when he realized his tea was still hot brought a subtle, satisfied smile to the demon's features. It was barely there, but earnest all the same. The angel didn't always _notice_ Crowley's small gestures - the little miraculous feats of luck that plagued Aziraphale's time with him. When he did, it always pleased him to no end.

Gradually, Crowley's limbs worked their way into a tangled mess about his sleeping angel. At some point, a blanket, thick velvety black settled over them both. The demon stayed awake, wound protectively around the other, basking in his warmth and light as thoughts of mottled feathers drifted back to the forefront of his mind.

Aziraphale slept comfortably, perhaps for the first time, in the demon’s protective entanglement. His breath was slow and regular, a rhythm of contentment and relaxation. Every so often, and although sleeping quite soundly, the angel smiled.


	13. Here Comes the Ocean

Gabriel waited patiently, hands clasped in front of himself, for Michael to present her discoveries. He was wickedly handsome, violet eyes glittering with the cruelty that only an angel could manage. His smile, though gorgeous, was devoid of warmth.

“Well?” he asked, curiously, raising his brows expectantly. “Any news?”

Michael was examining her nails. They glittered a subtle but unmistakable gold in Heaven's overwhite light. She'd liked the color when she'd seen it on earth, in a certain small pub in a certain small village - but it looked a bit more _obvious_ Upstairs. Tilting her head, she splayed her fingers to display them for Gabriel. "Too much?"

Not waiting for a response, Michael offered Gabriel a single, glossy page. It was the photo of Aziraphale's wings, the two dusky feathers buried amongst the white.

"He was shocked when I showed him." _The demon didn't tell him_. "He's in the countryside with the demon Crawley as we speak. Says he's in love." _He's got his claws in him_. "I offered him help, but he didn't seem to want it." _We'll have to take matters into our own hands_. Her steel-blue eyes asserted the words that went unspoken, glimmered dangerously in the light.

"Aziraphale may be a lost cause."

“In love?” Gabriel balked, peering at the photograph and shaking his head. “In _love_ with a _demon_?” He chuckled, throwing his hands up, “I mean, _Aziraphale_ , for Heaven’s sake? Who would’ve seen that one coming, huh?” His eyes twinkled with genuine amusement. He gently tossed the picture onto Michael’s desk.

“We’ll have to keep someone on Earth for observation, then,” he commanded, with an upward wave of his pointed finger, “until we get further instruction from the Almighty”.

He turned to leave, stopping for a moment in the doorway with his back towards Michael. “And no, Michael. The color suits you.” He walked out of the office, footsteps echoing against the vast white walls.

Michael looked toward God and prayed, silently, for patience in the face of her coworkers.

She rose primly from her desk, the photo promptly vanishing, heels echoing in the otherwise empty room as she trailed after Gabriel. She'd never understood why her peers had so much trouble connecting dots; it was a tremendous waste of time having to explain things so very slowly.

"Gabriel," her voice rang out, ice and fire, with a polite sweetness, the sort that didn't belong to any being so fearsome as she.

"I believe the issue is rather more pressing. Perhaps," she smiled thinly, but kindly all the same, "we might discuss it over a drink." Somewhere others wouldn't hear.

Gabriel’s heavenly eyes glittered with a spark of curiosity. He met her gaze, as if trying to find a motive, gauging their sincerity. “Of course, Michael,” he half chuckled, and opened his arms wide as if physically receiving her request. “I’m all ears.” His voice was crisp, and though it lacked warmth, was still rich and attractive.

He wondered what the Archangel was planning. Michael wasn’t who she seemed- that much, he knew- but Gabriel didn’t know the extent of it. “We can leave immediately, if it is truly pressing”.

Michael was a warrior. A general. An executioner, who'd strode fearlessly through the gates of Hell. Michael was the sword of God, screaming through the sky with a primal ferocity no Angel who remained in Heaven had ever known. Those who had known it, Michael had cast out. She was God's wrath, Her ire.

 _Presently_ , Michael was simultaneously irritated by Gabriel's incompetence and pleased for an excuse to leave her desk.

"Now would be just fine."

Her smile crept its way to her eyes, and she strode past him, with no doubt he'd follow.

Gabriel followed Michael, listening to the rhythmic clacking of her heels on the floor. Though they both had impeccable posture, there was something about Michael's that seemed more upright. Gabriel's movements were fluid but less graceful, and although he generally had a very uptight nature, he almost looked lax in comparison.

When they arrived at their destination, Gabriel ordered a cocktail- not the type one would expect him to have- and focused his attention on the other Archangel.

"So. Michael. What seems to be the problem?" His eyes lacked affect and through the facade of friendliness in his voice, he prepared to listen with a critical ear. It was and always has been his job to communicate, to relay messages to and from the Almighty. If Michael had something of import to say, the Almighty would be waiting to hear a complete and accurate representation of it.

Michael rested on the edge of her bar stool, perched more than she was relaxed, though her legs still folded neatly beside her. She ordered wine, white and dry and notably terrible compared to the Sauvignon Blanc of Earth.

"This issue needs to be dealt with. _Quickly_ ," she began, though there was no urgency in her tone to match the statement.

"We know already that the demon Crawley can withstand holy water. Who's to say what else?" Her voice lowered, though she'd purposely picked a rather empty section of the bar, as if she feared someone might overhear them. "He's clearly tempted Aziraphale beyond reason, Gabriel. It is a _problem_. And it needs to be dealt with."

She took a small sip from her glass. "The repercussions of allowing it to continue would be tremendous. The swiftest course of action would be to dispatch the demon," she paused, as if to gauge his reaction - "but I don't think it's the wisest. I fear it might turn Aziraphale further from the light. I do have another idea. One that could show him what it would mean for him, to continue down this path. What it would truly mean - so that he might decide for himself."

Michael watched him, expectant, though she didn't bother to hope he got her meaning. Still, she wanted to hear his response before she said it aloud.

Gabriel looked at Michael with a hint of disinterest, and possibly disdain, reflected in his violet eyes. Aziraphale already suffered his punishment. So did the demon. As ridiculous as it was for the two to be in love, in his opinion (which was, of course, the only one that mattered save the Almighty’s), it was no longer a matter of Heaven’s concern.

Despite this, his ambivalence was such that he didn’t mind humoring the Archangel. Aziraphale was simply a Principality, after all, and while he was a distinguished lieutenant once upon a time, he didn’t have anything unique to offer their department. The demon, on the other hand, could prove to be an issue. Aziraphale was the only one to observe the demon whilst on Earth, and that information was certainly compromised.

“Aziraphale and the demon already suffered their consequences. I don’t think it is necessary to interfere any longer.” He paused, eyeing the Archangel, basking in his authority. “Still. It would be foolish to ignore your predilection for the safety and sanctity of Heaven. What did you have in mind, Michael?” he inquired, his voice almost critical.

Michael's eyes flared, but her expression didn't change. It had been the barest flash of irritation, gone already by the time she spoke again. "It's not about Aziraphale or the demon," she stated, pointedly. Though her fingers still rested on the stem of her wine glass she was still, her gaze piercing straight through Gabriel.

"It's about the fallen who saw the demon bathe in holy water," her head inclined, the movement barely evident. "It's about the angels who watched Aziraphale bask in Hellfire." There'd been a marked intensity in her features, in her tone - fleeting and strangely hard to pinpoint - and it vanished as she finally lifted the glass to her lips.

"They suffered no consequence. They _subverted_ their consequences. Heaven and Hell both know it." She offered him a warm, but misplaced smile. "We have God to turn to, of course. But what will the fallen do with their newfound hope if it isn't stamped out in front of them?"

Her directness was almost chilling; she spoke as someone who had shouldered the War, who knew the inevitability of another and could smell it, blood in the water.

"We allow Hell to claim Aziraphale. We allow Hell to see him suffer. We allow him to learn what falling _truly_ means. When the demon crawls into the pit after him, we watch the fallen devour their own. No more hope. No more demon. No-one but Hell to blame. Once we retrieve Aziraphale, he'll have nowhere to look but up."

She set the glass down and folded her hands atop the bar.

"The demon will face his consequences. Aziraphale will face his consequences, and we'll save his soul in the process. _Surely_ you can better understand the importance, now?" That warm smile sweetened. She knew he probably couldn't. It didn't matter; Michael only needed him to pretend.

Gabriel listened to her intently, absorbing every word, and thoroughly disagreeing with each one. His face became stern, eyes betraying what little emotion his soul contained.

“Michael. It isn’t up to you or me to play God. _We_ don’t decide the punishments or judge their effectiveness. The Almighty was satisfied with Aziraphale’s retribution and, according to your reports, is punishing him in Her own way.”

He drained his drink, which still seemed out of place in his large, masculine hands. He placed it on the table a little too forcefully, and it banged loudly. He shook his head in admonishment.

“Aziraphale deserves happiness, just like the rest of them. It isn’t our place to take that away from him. The Fallen witnessed the same with their own; I doubt they will cause any trouble for us. They will simply disintegrate themselves in holy water,” he gave her a knowing look, “ _if_ they’re able to obtain any, that is.”

He stood up briskly, intolerant to the very idea of taking justice into their own hands. Who were they to pass judgment on sins? That was for Her to decide, and Her alone.

“This conversation is entirely over, Michael. I will not have us forming alliances with Hell, and I will certainly not condone sentencing Aziraphale- honestly, Michael, _Aziraphale_ of all angels- to the pit to be tortured and Lord knows what else!”

With this, his voice rose slightly, and he threw his hands up wildly. “It is preposterous to even suggest such a thing! No. Absolutely not.” It was clear, that for whatever reason (and despite the angel’s incompetence and debauchery) Gabriel was sweet on Aziraphale. He would not be persuaded.

Michael observed Gabriel's outburst - yes, _outburst_ \- without so much as a flicker of emotion. The smile didn't waver in the slightest. She didn't even blink.

Slowly, the Archangel lifted the wine glass to her lips. She drained it in a few swigs, and set the glass neatly back into place atop the bar, lifting the napkin it'd come on to dab at the corner of her mouth.

Michael stood, and smoothed the front of her coat, a habitual motion rather than a necessary one. Gabriel towered over her, a difference in height that was only emphasized by what little distance she'd left between them.

"Of course. I suppose it's simply an overreaction on my part."

She gazed up at him, pleasantly.

"At least, I hope it is. I'll continue to monitor the situation, and report to you should it escalate. I hate to imagine what form Her wrath might take, if you're wrong."

One hand closed the gap, and delicately adjusted the other Archangel's lapel, as if she'd noticed something just slightly out of place.

"Black wouldn't suit you, Gabriel."

Her hands folded neatly behind her back, and the Archangel Michael strode from the bar.

Gabriel recoiled slightly at Michael’s touch and watched her walk out of the bar with loathing. He shrugged his shoulders, as if it would shake off his hypothetical black wings, the corner of his mouth twitching. Right. Time to get to work, then.


	14. Gone to Choose

Aziraphale slept soundly, curled up against the demon, swimming in the luxurious warmth of the blanket. The formerly intermittent smile was a permanent one now. Slight, but present. He looked so _angelic_ , in the human sense of the word. It was easy to see how humans had been inspired by the angel’s sweet, soft features, and incredible inner light.

There was a loud bang in the bedroom, light flashing into the hallway. The windows of the cottage rattled as if by an Earthly tremor. As sudden as the event transpired, it was over.

A towering figure emerged from the darkness. His eyes were radiantly purple, contrasting heavily against the light grey of his scarf and jacket. He was lean and impossibly handsome.

“Aziraphale,” he spoke, voice sharp and masculine. “We need to talk”.

Crowley had been watching Aziraphale for hours. Watching Aziraphale, the windows, the door. Watching the shadowed corners of the room and the doorways he couldn't quite see into. His hand, which had unceasingly stroked Aziraphale's hair since he'd fallen asleep, stilled the moment he saw that flash of light.

He waited half a second, only enough time to feel whether or not Aziraphale reacted to the event - and then Crowley was gone from him. There was no flash of light, no unearthly sound.

Without warning, gold-yellow eyes shot toward Gabriel in the dark, as if the Serpent had been coiled there, waiting, set to strike. He had been. For hours, for days, for years. His forearm slammed sharply across Gabriel's chest and he snarled as he shoved him violently toward the nearest wall, gripping him by the shoulder with bruising force. His other hand was drawn back, splayed wide and held within the Archangel's line of sight, the skin of his palm aglow with the embers of Hellish fire.

" _What the fuck are you doing here_ ," the hiss of a whisper bore more malice than should've been possible - Crowley relived the sensation of the air prickling around him, the gathering of holy light - but he also remembered that it'd stopped, and it was perhaps the only thing that stopped him from grinding the heel of his burning palm right into the Archangel's face.

He only held it ready. Close enough that Gabriel could feel its heat.

"Be fucking quiet about it," he snapped the addition through clenched teeth, shoving his arm harder into Gabriel's chest.

Gabriel was taken by surprise as the demon slammed him into the wall. He noticed, unpleasantly (but not as unpleasantly as expected), that Crowley was without clothing. He couldn’t help but allow his gaze to flutter down, then quickly back up to the demon’s eyes. To Gabriel, they were revoltingly yellow. Disgusting snake. Even so, he could, perhaps in some way, see why Aziraphale liked Earth so much.

He felt the fire warm his cheek and he scowled. Terrified he should be, he wasn’t. He was the Archangel fucking Gabriel. Crowley was nobody. _Nobody._

His skin glowed a faint white, burning the demon with a holy wound. There was a sound like hot iron being plunged into cool water, and the smell of singed flesh hung in the air. It wasn’t severe, just white-hot and quick enough to break his grasp.

“Get off me you fucking idiot,” he scoffed, though a mere whisper, as his gaze rested upon the sweet angel. “Aziraphale is in danger!”

He brushed his coat on either side as if the demon had soiled it with his touch. Gabriel snapped his fingers, cooling the demon’s wounds instantly, as if it were inconsequential.

He was shaking his head in disbelief, irritation flashing in his lavender eyes. “And put some fucking clothes on, heathen!”

The pain didn't break his grasp, not at first. Crowley managed to hold on for a frighteningly long moment before the pain finally became too much and he slunk back, thin tendrils of smoke rising off the scorched skin to no reaction.

Crowley flexed his hand, though didn't yet quench the fire within it. It was a horrible sight - looked to engulf his hand in the same gradual manner it would were it actually burning him. Part of the charm of Hellfire, really. It wasn't until the actual wounds on his skin ceased in their searing pain that Crowley seemed to relax.

Well, _relax_ wasn't the right word.

He snapped his fingers, the Hellfire immediately diminishing as his clothing appeared, down to the glasses that shielded his gaze from the other's violet eyes. Very particular violet eyes that he'd imagined trembling in terror on more than one occasion. Crowley paced about Gabriel in a half-circle, cutting off the other side of the room, where Aziraphale still slept - occasionally jolting a glance in his direction, as if he were expecting more company. The thought was almost tangible in the way he reacted to it, widening the breadth of his movement in a way that brought him closer to Aziraphale, however slightly.

"What do you mean he's in danger?" he spat, still nothing more than a low hiss, the unnatural sort that echoed the Serpent, drawn and piercing. _What the fuck did you do_? He wanted to ask - but didn't. Not yet. 

Gabriel turned his back to the demon. A gesture of faith and good will towards the enemy- the only one he could muster. “I have reason to believe that Aziraphale is in danger,” he began, slowly. “I can’t tell you everything, of course. I don’t even know everything,” he sputtered. The Archangel paced slowly, showing an unusual amount of concern. 

“I theorize that there is going to be an attempt on Aziraphale’s life- corporation- in order to bring his soul into Hell,” he spat out the words as if they were tainted, distasteful. “This is not the will of God,” he added, turning his head to meet the demon’s gaze, “I want _you_ to know that”.

“A certain rebellious Archangel is convinced that Aziraphale needs to be punished, first by Hell. Then by…” He turned to face Crowley, a rare flicker of sympathy in his eyes, “By losing you.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with even the slightest hint of emotional attachment.

“Aziraphale is _good_. I don’t agree with his actions. With your...” he waved his hand flippantly, “whatever you two wish to call it. But Aziraphale is, well,” he shrugged, unable or unwilling to complete the thought.

He stepped closer to the angel, who rested so peacefully, so sweetly. Aziraphale, in many ways, felt like a family pet. Gabriel had eventually warmed to his peculiar sincerity and bright smiles. It was so rare to see such delight in the Silver City. He didn’t experience it for himself, but in some ways, felt it vicariously through Aziraphale.

He looked upon the demon, a slight scowl of disdain. “Truly, Crowley, I despise you.” He flicked a finger back and forth between the two of them. “But _we_ need to keep him safe. I believe you can be trusted with that task, if nothing else.”

“Aziraphale was warned about your union, recently, by Michael. Threatened by Michael, I assume.” He looked Crowley up and down critically. “He said he loved you. Refused Heaven’s assistance.”

Despite Gabriel effectively standing down, Crowley still remained on edge. With good reason, he would've argued, but that wasn't the point at present. His posture, normally lax, seemed even more so now - strange, considering he was clearly impressively tense. It showed in the harsh lines of his face, the furrow of his brow, down to fingers that clenched and unclenched visibly as he patrolled the space between the Archangel and _his_ angel.

Crowley'd never known Gabriel well. He was sure they'd spoken once or twice - Gabriel was _Gabriel_ , after all, it was hard to exist in Heaven without him yelling at you on occasion - but the demon hadn't lasted long Upstairs to begin with, and most of it was nothing more than a hazy memory now. Still, he was fairly certain he'd never heard him concerned for everyone - never seen him out-of-sorts, the way he was pacing now, almost mirroring Crowley in a manner he would've acknowledged as ironic if his thoughts hadn't shot off in so many different directions.

"How would _you_ know the will of God?" Crowley demanded, darkly, his eyes narrowing behind the glasses at the notion that Gabriel thought he was privy to Her will. "You wanted to _end the world_ ," he spat, accusatory, almost bristling - but he bit back the tirade that threatened to spill forth as the Archangel continued. He was trying not to let his volatility get the best of him; it was _apparent_ he was trying. Unfortunately, he was also hyper-focused on trying to assure there was no present threat, defensive and coiled.

"You were going to destroy him. Told him to shut his stupid mouth and die." Gabriel stepped closer to Aziraphale, and Crowley immediately slunk into the space between, took a step closer to the more imposing figure as if to ward him back, without a hint of fear. "Why should I trust you, why should I trust _any_ effort you'd make to keep him safe?"

Though Gabriel might not have recognized it, it wasn't a rejection - it was an earnest demand. He'd asked for his help. Lord knew they needed it. But Crowley hadn't expected to receive it, and now it was staring him in the face he couldn't help but doubt its sincerity.

The Archangel mentioned Michael, and for a moment, the demon went strangely still. Then he took another half step back toward Aziraphale. For the first time, and only for the barest instant, he looked back at him in a way that actually took his sight completely off the Archangel, whom he'd so carefully kept in his periphery. He visibly softened, hackles seeming to lower - then his gaze snapped back.

He didn't want Gabriel talking about he and Aziraphale. Didn't want the words in his mouth, and he deflected it immediately. "What'd you think would come of telling Michael? Imagine she's sharpening her sword right now. Time for another mass eviction? Not much real estate left in Hell, so you know. All the good offices are taken -- and they weren't very good to begin with. She won't be happy you're here," and his diatribe ceased with the realization: No. She wouldn't, would she?

Crowley took a deep breath.

"What am I supposed to do about _Michael_."

Gabriel stilled. It was as if all the energy was sucked out of the room and transferred into his essence. His eyes emanated a faint, violet light, nearly imperceptible. Gabriel, in this moment, looked exactly like an Archangel ought to look. Not the soft, beautiful cherubs, or the serene, loving angels inspired by Aziraphale. Not even the tall, handsome human he imitated a few moments prior. He was a demon of Heaven, fearsome and cold, little more than a cutthroat soldier.

“I fucking despise you, _demon_. Don’t think- for a moment- that I would spare your life if God wished it to be cut down. I would _slaughter_ you- and Aziraphale, too- if _She_ willed it so.” His voice began to rise, losing concern for the angel’s slumber.

“I want nothing more than to rip your foul, disgusting soul from your body, and extinguish it permanently. Consider it my gift to _Aziraphale_ that I allow your filth to exist at all”. 

The fury was twisted into his face. Once striking, now it held a look to send shivers up spines, to cause hairs to stand on end. He looked _murderous_. Dangerous.

“I am here of my own volition, out of my own personal care and concern for the Principality Aziraphale, who has shown nothing but dedication and faith to the Almighty. He is _good_ , and he deserves to keep his _goodness_.” His gaze bore into the demon, wrathful and precarious. “You _will_ respect me. Or Aziraphale _will_ perish.”

As Crowley watched the change his own eyes flared. For a moment it looked as if he were going to recoil, shrinking back into himself - but he was only resuming that same, defensive posture which had only just begun to soften. Another step toward Aziraphale, and another, and the space in which the demon moved had diminished, centered solely between Gabriel and the sleeping angel.

Crowley's head tilted, and his lips curled into a wicked smirk, one that bordered on a snarl, all wrath and bared teeth. "How holy of you," he breathed, near-silent but resounding in the sudden stillness of the room.

The tension, the fear that twisted in his gut had nothing to do with self preservation. His only concern had been from the beginning, still was, Aziraphale.

"I know how you feel," he admitted, tone casual in the face of what he knew as pure destruction, "about me. If you hadn't noticed, I've done my best to stay out of your way throughout the years," he took a step to the left, " _All_ the years," and then the right, "I'd like to carry on avoiding you, but you're here now, apparently trying to do something good,"

_He deserves to keep his goodness._

"Which we both know 'm not nearly as capable of. So why don't you tell me what I can do."

Gabriel’s features softened in an instant. Back to a normal, if not abnormally handsome, human. It was chilling how mercurial the Archangel was, considering the immense power he wielded.

He clasped his hands together, and snapped, “If I knew how to keep him safe, I wouldn’t be here talking to _you_ , now would I? Michael will kill all of us.” He rubbed his temples and took a deep breath.

“I just finished discussing the situation. Refusing this situation. I came here right away. You’ve spent more time with Aziraphale than anyone else. You know him. I assumed you would know his vulnerabilities as well. I can’t tell you how to keep him safe, because _I don’t know_.”

Gabriel resumed his pacing, every so often gazing over at the sleeping angel. “You know Hell better than I do. How would they target someone? Maybe we can start there.”

Slowly - very slowly - Crowley forced himself to relax. It was a purely gradual thing, something he'd clearly practiced over the years (and years (and years)), which started in the neck. His head tilted one way, then the other - followed by an almost imperceptible roll of his shoulders. All the while his eyes didn't leave Gabriel, and he continued the incessant pacing - apparently, there was a limit even after so much practice.

He looked less like he was an instant from pouncing on him like a feral animal, but only slightly.

"You've got the same vulnerabilities, you're _angels_ ," he spat, though it wasn't with the same venom. Wasn't murderous. It was just Crowley, who was doing his best to swallow the demon that wanted so desperately to burn Gabriel to dust. He knew the feeling was mutual. Knew the other was probably trying to do the same - though he didn't have much sympathy for it.

Crowley cringed at the other's admission that he'd no idea how to help, but didn't seem deterred. He wanted to leave the room, to bring Gabriel as far away from Aziraphale as he could - but he still didn't trust the situation, still patrolled ceaselessly between them, still watched for silent apparitions.

"They'll come out of the ground and take him," Crowley murmured flatly, aiming a fleeting glance Aziraphale's way. "If they're not feeling up to a risk, they'll send a hound to drag him down," there was a certain disconnect in his voice. It was almost businesslike. Rang hollow, not unlike Gabriel's, albeit with none of the implied warmth. "If it's someone with a shred of intelligence, they'll bait him into it. Someone selling a rare book. The usual sort of innocent temptation." Another glance toward Aziraphale, longer.

"It'll be a procession," the same tone. He was still staring at Aziraphale, his breathing slowed. "Through the top floors to gather everyone - won't have been that much excitement in years. _Lot_ of old friends who'll want to say hello, who'll want to celebrate the capture of the angel who thwarted their shot at freedom," his thumbnail dug sharply into the pad of his index finger, worrying.

"Hellfire doesn't work like holy water," he mused, still staring as his angel peacefully slept. "They'll use it sparingly until there's not an inch that's not in pain. All of them'll have a go," he'd forgotten their ruse, foolishly, as his mind spiralled down into the depths. "They'll drag him through molten rock. Lock him in a flaming cell. Boil him in blood. Flay him living until he's nearly not and leave him in the darkness to heal so they can do it again."

Crowley was frozen, his back to Gabriel, body magnetically drawn to face his counterpart. "After a few hundred years," the words were coming slower now, "Lord Beelzebub will present him to Satan, who'll proclaim it's not nearly what he deserved, and they'll start from the beginning. It won't end. And when I go after him," when, not if, but Crowley couldn't finish the thought.

He fell silent, breath heavy and slow. No regard for Gabriel, no regard for anything but Aziraphale, still smiling on the couch. Crowley could outwit Hell. He didn't know if his angel bore the pessimism necessary to do so.

 _When I go after him, they'll make me watch_.

The terror that wound through him was almost tangible. 

Gabriel gripped the demon’s shoulder with a large, strong hand. There was a faint glow of healing- to the extent of which other types of angels couldn’t compare- and the light rippled through the demon. It wisped itself through his skin, healing every scratch and bruise, but also his turbulent thoughts and emotions. The light infiltrated memories and fantasies until they were little more than a blur, until they faded away entirely.

Gabriel’s voice rang out, but it wasn’t the sharp, reverberating sound that was so often uttered- it was _angelic_. It had a slightly musical intonation, spoken for the first time on this mortal world. Too divine for mortal ears. It was hauntingly _beautiful_.

“Revelation 21:4 ‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’”

There was a warmth unlike any other. Sweet memories floating to the surface. Aziraphale, laughing. Aziraphale, bright and happy to see the demon, to be close to him. Aziraphale’s cries of pleasure. Aziraphale in the rooftop garden, beautiful wings bursting forth.

Gabriel withdrew his hand. His voice returned to his usual, though it was slightly gentler for the circumstances. “You forget yourself, demon. We need to focus.”

He was silent, moments stretching idly by, as he gave Crowley a minute to regain his composure. He’d regained his own composure as well- he was being too tender for his liking. His flat affect and sharp voice returned.

“Perhaps, you should take Aziraphale away for a while. Get him away from the bookshop, from London. And where he will always be in your sight. He can’t survive that mistreatment; it will ruin him. He is too pure. We mustn’t tell him, either, that we risk all of our lives.”

“And you know Aziraphale,” he murmured with a shake of his head, “He’d rather give himself up than risk _your_ life”.

Crowley's very soul, an unstitched wound, was starved for that holy light. The demon almost jolted away the moment he felt the touch, a hand half-raised, smoldering Hellfire in less than an instant which immediately extinguished as he felt it, as it pervaded his heart, his lungs, his mind.

He stood paralyzed as the words washed over him, the unholy being so starved for Divinity he might've let it consume him whole if Gabriel allowed it, might've drained it from his fingertips until none remained.

At some point, he'd reached out for Aziraphale.

The hand lowered slowly in the silence, and Crowley stood, unwavering, still not looking toward the Archangel.

He knew he should thank him, wanted to beg for more in the same breath but he did neither, though his voice was markedly softer, edged in a mix of misplaced calm and - somewhere far beneath, surprised gratitude.

"There's no running from Hell," he contemplated aloud. His brow furrowed, in thought this time - and finally he turned to address the Archangel. No longer distressed, no longer defensive or poised to strike. He looked and felt exhausted, weary, as if sheer force of will drove him even now.

"And there's nothing I can do to stop them. I have holy water," he admitted, with a rare flash of guilt as he glanced back to his angel. "A lot of it. But I can't exactly tote it across the world," grimly. "I need... there needs to be something I can take with me. Someone sent his sword," he considered it for a moment. "But he'll know if I touch it, straight away."

Clearly, Crowley's own safety had never been a question to the demon. He meant to keep his promises to Aziraphale - but if he couldn't, he fully intended to do everything he could to protect him in their stead.

Gabriel gazed upon the weary creature with something that looked like pity dancing in his radiant eyes. “Yes,” he agreed in a gruff voice. “My thoughts exactly. I’ve brought a few items that could be of assistance.” He straightened his scarf absentmindedly- a gesture of anxiety, though perhaps unrecognized by the demon.

Gabriel knew that, in handing over these gifts, and his blessing, he would be betraying Michael completely. The thought not only pained him- it terrified him. _Forgive me, Lord_ , he prayed to himself, _Lend me strength, that I may do what I know in my soul to be righteous._

He directed the demon over to the kitchen table with a brief motion of his hand. “Please.” He said it politely, though it was not a request. The Archangel followed the demon into the kitchen, his figure imposing, and he didn’t sit. He waved his hand, miraculously summoning several objects evenly spaced on the table. The tea cups were gone.

“The first,” he began, gesturing at the item closest to himself, “is a dagger”. The dagger was eerily beautiful and well crafted. The dark metal of the blade had been forged into something resembling an angel’s feather. It glinted now, even in the absence of light, shimmering with holy energy. “It will not kill demons,” he continued, “But it will exorcise them”.

“Throwing knives.” He moved his gesture along to the second item, as if he were introducing prizes or auction items. The knives were darkened steel, long and smooth, and dangerous. They were painted with red crosses, and the handles were shaped into them. Though they lacked the beauty and energy of the first weapon, the knives were formidable. “Consecrated, of course, though they will neither exorcise nor kill”.

He moved along to the third item. It was contained in a small, wooden jewelry box, which opened itself as Gabriel spoke. “For Aziraphale; this ring will protect him from illusion. That includes,” he said with a slightly darkened look, “any false impressions from _you_ ”. The ring was stunning- a coiled snake, scaled and golden, with two gemstones set in place of its eyes. It was, in his own unspoken way, Gabriel’s form of a blessing.

He gestured to the last item. A rosary bracelet, the beads smooth and dark, with a charm featuring the Archangel Gabriel. “ _For you_.” Gabriel looked almost uncomfortable voicing the words to the demon. “Consider it a direct line, should the Almighty will it”.

Crowley didn't immediately move when Gabriel gestured toward the kitchen. He felt less unease now, certainly - but it wasn't of his own volition, and the demon lingered a moment longer, casting glances between Aziraphale and the kitchen. It was only a short distance away, but if he went first he was no longer a barrier between the Archangel and his companion.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried, as best he could, to come to terms with the fact that Gabriel was here to help. Then he opened them and strode, fists clenched, where the Archangel bid him.

The moment Crowley sighted the items on the table he widened the berth he gave them, circling into the corner of the tiled room to observe from a distance as Archangel explained each item in turn.

Crowley wasn't good at much, but he was observant. He'd been observing angels (one angel) for centuries. No-one like Gabriel of course (and he was glad for it), but there were still a few innate similarities. Crowley noted the fleeting anxious movements, the shifts in his tone. By the time the other had finished explaining everything, Crowley's eyes had stopped flitting nervously between the table and Gabriel, instead resting solely on the proud and imposing form. He was surprised to notice cracks in its foundation.

Every angel he'd ever known had been a horrible liar - all but two.

One now reigned over Hell. The other had cast him down.

"Here I was just going to ask for your mobile," a tepid joke - for once not entirely at the Archangel's expense. "Nobody's going to miss these? Realize their collection's shrunk?" He was only worried about one Nobody in particular. It was all good and well for Gabriel to aid him in striking down demons, but - "what about Michael."

It wasn't even a question, not really. Almost a gentle reminder, as if he hoped Gabriel would truly consider what he was getting himself into. He wouldn't have cared an hour ago, but now Gabriel was one of two Angels on a very different list - those he'd seen do anything good.

"What will you do?" He hated the fact that there was actual concern in his tone.

Gabriel forced a smile. It was easy- he’d forced smiles for thousands of years. His eyes were cold, betraying none of the fear creeping inside of his mind. He didn’t think Michael would kill him, but he certainly knew she could.

“God will protect me,” he said, in a tense voice, almost as if he were praying for it to be true. “I will do what is right. This-” he pointed with a sweeping gesture over the table, “is right”. He shifted, fixing his jacket sleeves unnecessarily.

The Archangel met the demon’s gaze. “You too were a child of the light. No matter your sins- past, present, or future- you are a creation of God,” he paused slightly, before continuing, his voice full of conviction, “Furthermore, I know the Principality Aziraphale to be repentant and virtuous. The Almighty may not speak of favorites, but,” he gestured toward the sleeping angel, “Aziraphale will always be forgiven.”

He walked away from the weapons and the demon with long strides, perfectly postured, impossibly handsome. His voice was cutting, tinged with his usual cold cruelty. “I will take my leave.” The air had a heavy, electrified weight.

“Oh, and Crowley? I hate you. Don’t call me unless Aziraphale is dying.” He smiled, and it almost looked genuine. Almost.

With a flash of lightning, and a ridiculous amount of noise and shaking, the Archangel was gone, leaving Crowley standing alone in the kitchen.

On the couch, the angel stirred, faintly hearing a noise. Perhaps it was just in his dream…

Crowley managed a weak smile in return - the usual, vaguely grimacing sort that wasn't actually a smile at all so much as it was just... an expression.

"Child of the light, yeah," he echoed vaguely, flippantly, like it didn't pain him to hear, though the edge of dismissiveness in his expression faded when Gabriel spoke of Aziraphale. He still didn't trust him - not really. But he supposed he had to try, and he'd yet to hear anyone else so close to the Almighty lend so much hope his angel's way.

"Lovely chat," he called quietly after him - and practically jumped out of his skin in the explosion of energy that followed. He bit his lip hard to reign in an expletive, hand hovering millimeters above the table it'd almost slapped violently down on. "Fucking... subtlety. Why is subtlety so _impossible_ for them?" he hissed to the empty room.

Gabriel would never be able to get one over on Michael - not in a million years. Not if this visit was anything to go by.

Crowley tried not to think about the looming threat as he manifested a bag - dark, leather, _Crowley_ \- and carefully began loading Gabriel's gifts into it. He was overly cautious not to touch them, taking his time to wrap each neatly in cloth and half expecting he'd be discorporated on contact. The other half knew the Archangel wasn't that clever.

Once the holy objects had been thoroughly buried beneath a number of other unnecessary things (the sort Crowley never carried, like clothing), he made his way back into the living room.

Aziraphale slept, and the demon heaved a relieved sigh. He knew he'd have to explain this - all of this. There was no way around it, despite what Gabriel'd said. He had to warn him.

Thankfully, he'd have until Aziraphale woke up to figure out how.

One item had remained in Crowley's grasp - the small box containing the ring.

_That includes any false impressions from you._

He could barely remember what those were at this point, for how long he'd been maintaining them. Surely Aziraphale knew? It wasn't as if the angel'd never seen another demon; he _had_ to know.

He could just slip it on his finger now, try to explain it away in the morning and hope he'd find it endearing.

Instead, he slipped the box into his pocket. Crowley sank tiredly onto the floor beside the sofa, one leg bent at the knee and the other straight out before him, his back resting against the base of the couch.

He knew Gabriel's healing was the only reason he wasn't a crazed mess of nerves - but it left him tired. Eventually his head canted back, neck supported by the edge of the couch cushion.

He gazed at the ceiling, and waited for Aziraphale to wake up.

Gabriel manifested himself into his office, and slumped into his chair, with folded hands on his desk. He was weary. Healing the demon, though he didn’t show it, took great effort. It was as if the lost soul attempted to drink every last drop of his Divinity, greedy for God’s light. Part of him felt sorry for the demon, foul as it was. Aziraphale must’ve seen something _good_ in the creature, or was, perhaps, able to draw the goodness out of it.

With a long, resigned sigh, he awaited her. It could be moments. It could be days. Either way, he knew she would come for him. He only hoped God would grant him mercy from Her greatest weapon.


	15. Cast the First Stone

Several peaceful and wonderful hours later, Aziraphale slowly opened his eyes. He felt _refreshed_. His body was stiff after spending so many hours in the same position, and he stretched his arms wide. He noticed his dark angel leaning against the couch, and took a moment to comb his fingers through the fiery locks. His fingers brushed the back of Crowley’s neck affectionately.

“Good morning,” he whispered, voice groggy with sleep, still laying down and wrapped in the blanket. “I missed you”.

Crowley didn't move from that position for hours - none of his usual anxious pacing, fidgeting plagued him. While his eyes lidded beneath dark glasses they never fully closed, though he looked as if he might have been sleeping.

Some small part of him felt resigned. Resigned to the fact that Michael herself apparently had eyes on them - on _Aziraphale_ \- to the point the Archangel Gabriel had come to warn them. Granted him blessed weapons. Granted him his light. _Him._

And yet, for a fleeting instant, he'd forgotten he was Fallen. Forgotten Heaven and Hell and the rest of the world - forgotten everything but Aziraphale. If those thoughts were wrought by _Gabriel_ channeling his own Divinity - maybe, just maybe, the Almighty hadn't forgotten them after all.

Somehow, the notion pained him. A pain that was soon soothed by his angel's fingers in his hair, smoothing gently against his skin. Crowley tilted his head forward to accommodate them.

"Morning, angel." He turned to peer at him from behind dark glasses, temple resting against the couch. "How'd you sleep?"

“Oh, it was _lovely_ ,” he charmed, “I had so many astonishing and wonderful dreams. And it was tremendously comfortable and warm. And now I feel so very refreshed!”

The angel was sweet. Simple. He was genuinely and thoroughly delighted by his new discovery. His dreams had been filled with an overwhelming amount of pleasant and nonsensical things: a bath of cocoa, a house made entirely of crepes, Crowley wearing clothing made of candies, first edition books summoning chocolates while he read them.

“Why, I quite enjoyed myself!” his head bobbled to and fro against the couch cushions, his hair making a slight swishing noise, as he wiggled happily. His smile was wide and bright and full of love. “Now I know why you do it all the time!”

It was with exaggerated effort that he swung himself up to sit, stretching his arms to the heavens, relinquishing some of the stiffness. He wrapped his arms around the demon, gently hugging him against his chest. “I think I ought to make a cup of tea. Would you like one, dear?”

For a moment, Crowley felt a bit jealous. He very rarely dreamed. If he did, he supposed they wouldn't be as pleasant as the angel's anyway.

Hearing Aziraphale talk about it, watching him wake up, Crowley couldn't help the small but fond smile that began to tug at the corners of his lips. "I want to hear about your dreams. Can't imagine what madness lives in your subconscious mind," he reached over to tap the angel's forehead with one finger.

Seeing the other stretch made him want to do the same, and Crowley arched impossibly, exhaling as he worked himself out of the kinked position he'd sat in all night - only to be drawn back into Aziraphale's embrace.

"I'll get it," he stated simply, without answering his question. "Or," he ventured, "we could find somewhere that might actually serve breakfast."

He was itching to leave the white walls behind. Knowing both Michael and Gabriel had set foot within them made them feel distinctly unsafe. The temptation of breakfast, he felt, was a safe bet.

The angel practically squealed with delight. “Oh! Oh, breakfast would be perfectly marvelous! I can tell you all about my dreams over breakfast!” He began chattering excitedly, hanging onto the demon and slightly swaying all the while.

“We can walk into town! Together! - I know the way!- I’ve gone there before!- It was in the dark so it will be even more beautiful now!- I could show you how to get there!- We could hold hands!- We could hold hands in public!- The flowers are quite lovely!- I know you’ll love them, the flowers!”

Aziraphale was positively radiant and beaming with invigorated, Divine light. The sleep energized his soul and he felt as if his body were brand new. There was no hint of worry in his soft features, no weariness, no paranoia. Simply pure, cheerful, angelic bliss.

Crowley swayed too - automatically, in Aziraphale's grasp - through an expression of mild resignation that took quite a strange amount of effort to muster.

"I'd probably like it better in the dark," he pointed out - but everything else was very nearly too rapidfire for him to respond to. "And the plants won't be as nice as mine." Almost everything.

The demon craned his neck a bit to look back at the angel as best he could. Aziraphale seemed a whole new person. A very bright, bubbly, and energized person. An _exhaustingly happy_ person. He made a mental note to encourage him to sleep more.

Lazily, Crowley brushed his lips against the other's jaw. "You sleep like a rock, you know," he murmured, as if it were a compliment. He nuzzled fleetingly at his skin, inhaling his scent, as if he didn't know it well enough after so many years. Already, the thin tendrils of guilt wound through his stomach. He knew he'd be the one to break the peace - again. He knew he shouldn't put it off - again. He knew they should be driving at a hundred miles per hour, as fast as they could away from this place.

Still, he acted as if he didn't.

Crowley began to extract himself, stretching languidly once he got to his feet. "Will it be busy?"

“Only one way to find out!” he cooed. Aziraphale happily gripped the demon’s hand, practically dragging him from the cottage. The angel held his hand tightly, smiling and humming to himself as they walked into town.

The walk was short, but refreshing, and as they’d walked passed an assortment of wild flowers (just as promised), the angel pointed out his most favorite ones. When in town, several people said hi to Aziraphale, including the lovely agnostic man from the pub. They tucked into a small but cozy looking restaurant.

The smell of coffee wafted through the air and there was a bustle of plates, silverware, and chatter. It was busy. When seated, Aziraphale pored over the menu, and finally settled on waffles topped with fruits and ice cream and extra whipped cream.

While they waited for their food, he told Crowley (in excruciating detail) all about his dreams, besides the candy clothing. The angel was holding his hands from across the table, staring at him with more affection than seemed possible.

“..And then I opened the door but it wasn’t a door at all! It was made entirely of crepes!” His voice had a particularly melodious quality in its cheerfulness, as if it were a favorite song, an addicting song. If one was observant, one could see humans around Aziraphale leaning toward him slightly, craning to hear the angel’s divine music.

As they walked, Crowley allowed Aziraphale to do as he pleased. He moved at a leisurely pace alongside him, stopping to carefully inspect the flowers he indicated - predictably, with a scowl.

At one point, a bicycle flew past them on the sidewalk. Crowley barely acknowledged it, but they came upon it again moments later, the rider looking disgruntled where they'd fallen over into a particularly muddy patch of dirt which shouldn't have existed for lack of rain.

Crowley emphatically denied any involvement.

The restaurant didn't look like the type of place that would offer a morning liquor selection, and Crowley wasn't surprised to learn he was right when he looked at the menu. A table in the corner, one that allowed a full view of the small establishment had conveniently opened for them as they arrived. Crowley claimed the seat facing away from the window. When the server came to take their order, he requested black coffee and a serving of crepes. Strawberries, extra whipped cream.

The crepes still hadn't been touched, though Crowley was well into his second mug of coffee as Aziraphale rambled off his dreams - brows lofting at appropriate moments, mild confusion overcoming him at others. "Did it feel real? Like - you really thought, in your mind, that there was a door made of crepes? And that was just fine? Did you eat them?"

From across the restaurant, terrible news began to spread in quiet waves. The card reader, it seemed, had gone down.

The angel considered for a moment. “Well, I don’t suppose I thought anything really. It was like watching a movie.” He took a bite of his food, and closed his eyes, savoring it. He continued, “Don’t you have dreams?” Slowly the angel was working his way towards the crepes. Inevitable.

A waitress approached their table. She looked young, her long blonde hair tied back into a bun. “Mr. Fell, it is lovely seeing you. My husband met you at the bar the other day. He’s the chef here. Won’t you come to the kitchen to say hello?” She wore no wedding ring.

Aziraphale wiggled happily, always appreciating human kindness and friendship. He looked at Crowley with joy sparkling in his blue eyes. “I’ll just be a moment, dear…?” It was less of a statement and more of a question.

"I might've. Once," he hadn't, as far as he could recall. Crowley nudged the plate closer to Aziraphale under the guise of reaching for his mug again.

He stilled with it raised to his lips when the waitress approached, not immediately suspicious - though that changed as soon as the words left her mouth. Slowly, Crowley moved a foot under the table, resting it deliberately atop Aziraphale's as he met his eyes through the dark glasses. There was nothing suggestive about his gaze, though it was hard to see through the dark lenses.

"Should we finish eating, first?"

“Oh yes, of course!” chimed Aziraphale. He smiled at the waitress innocently. “I’ll be happy to pop ‘round once we’re quite finished!”

She smiled, but it looked strained. A glimmer of concern was reflected in her eyes. “O-of course, Mr. Fell. I’m so sorry to disturb you and your husband. I can come back when you two are finished eating.” She turned and walked hurriedly into the kitchen. When the doors swung open there was a brief glimpse of a circle of waitresses having a heated discussion.

Aziraphale, not noticing _anything_ peculiar, and focusing very intently on ignoring the husband bit, stuffed a very satisfying first bite of crepes into his mouth.

Crowley looked up to watch the waitress go. His eyes followed her to the circle of chattering waitresses which so soon vanished behind the door, and then he looked to Aziraphale. The 'husband' comment had barely even registered.

"Angel," he murmured, squeezing his hand gently. He did his best not to sound overly stressed, but the words were still firm. "We need to go. No popping 'round."

Crowley didn't necessarily think the woman was possessed, or otherwise under demonic influence. Usually he could _smell_ it from a mile away. Crowley also didn't know exactly what Michael was capable of, and angelic possession was a possibility he'd been unaware of until Aziraphale'd invented it just a few short weeks ago.

The demon was already sitting up a little bit straighter in his seat, shifting like he meant to stand.

“No popping ‘round?” he asked, mouth stuffed with crepes and strawberries. “But what about finishing breakfast?”

Of course, the angel was mostly concerned with the food, although he wouldn’t mind visiting the chef. In the little window of the door, a waitress was peering at them, keeping a close watch on their table. She was rapidly mouthing some words to a waitress next to her.

“Honestly Janet, just look at the poor dear. Bruises all over his neck. And he’s such a _lovely_ man. Doesn’t deserve it, not one bit, he doesn’t. His husband wouldn’t even let him come back here! We’ve got to _do something!_ ”

"I'll get you another breakfast," Crowley hissed. "Whatever you want. I'm not joking, Aziraphale." The tone - for Crowley, at least, was half-pleading. From a distance it just looked quite irritable, especially with the clenched jaw and furrowed brow. Thankfully he'd managed to restrain himself from his usual excessive gesturing thus far.

He did stand, then, and made a point of fishing his wallet from a pocket. It hadn't been there a moment before, but he produced a sum that was far too large for what they'd actually eaten and tossed it down on the table. There were approximately four different currencies in the pile.

Crowley held an expectant hand out to Aziraphale - tension that'd been mysteriously absent from his frame creeping into his posture at long last.

Aziraphale took his demon’s hand with a pout and furrowed brow. Crowley seemed unhappy, suddenly. Before he stood, he asked sadly, “Did I do something to upset you, dear?”

The waitress was peering at them, on the phone now. A man walked from the kitchen to the front counter, hovering by the register. He just stood there, casting occasional glances at their table.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Crowley murmured, quieter because he'd realized the din of the restaurant was gradually beginning to soften around them. "But we're either about to be attacked or I'm going to have to charm an entire establishment full of people I'd rather not have to talk to, and I'd appreciate if you trusted me and let me take you someplace else."

The fraying edges of his nerves were threading into his voice, quiet but present all the same. He took a half step back, not for the sake of moving away but to block off the aisle which led to Aziraphale's seat, giving him a clear path to walk in front of him.

He was trying his best not to sound agitated, but Crowley'd never been very good at it. He glanced toward the kitchen, already trying to formulate a plan for distraction if he needed to, though he hoped against hope that Aziraphale would just _listen_ to him.

“Crowley, I should hardly think we’re going to be attacked _here_ ,” he retorted, though stood up all the same. He did trust the demon. Completely. He had begun leading them to the front entrance when a waitress flitted to his side, wrapping herself on his arm.

“I do say- what _the hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Aziraphale balked, recoiled slightly from her touch. Although the angel was warm and kind, he did _not_ like to be touched, and he became instantly uncomfortable.

A policeman was now by the demon’s side, seemingly an apparition out of the ether. He took a firm hold on Crowley’s arm. “Sir. I’m going to need to ask you a few questions.” He gestured toward outside. “This way, please.”

Crowley had two options.

He could assume, indiscriminately, that the officer was an agent of Heaven or Hell. Could assume that the waitress gripping his beloved's arm was one of the same. He could immediately kill them both - or try. This was his first instinct.

Thankfully, Crowley went with the second. With a subtle snap of his fingers, he watched as the officer's features went blank. "No," he stated with a calm that wasn't currently his own, "I don't think we've time to catch up today. But it was _lovely_ to see you again," His voice slid like velvet into the relative quiet of the room, sensual, warming, and utterly uncharacteristic. Immediately, a few diners returned to their meals; certainly, the demon was an old friend of the policeman's, though they wouldn't know how they'd come to that conclusion. He stepped forward as he spoke, took hold of the waitress's arm - by all the grace in Heaven and all the wrath in Hell, he managed to do it gently - and removed it from Aziraphale's.

The waitress appeared similarly distant. "The food was delectable," he crooned as he rounded on the woman, forcing himself easily into the space between she and the angel by way of pushing him gently back, urging him toward the door. "The service left something to be desired. By the way - you should _really_ report that fire before it spreads. Lucky for you," he sneered toward the officer, "the authorities are already here."

The faint smell of smoke drifted from the kitchen. Somewhere, in some dank corner, a forgotten dishrag had found its way a bit too close to a burner. It wasn't near anything else that had much capacity to catch - nothing that would burn for long, at least. Just long enough.

The smoke alarm sounded in short order. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's arm himself, and ushered him briskly outside. It wasn't until they were clear of the door (with a number of other diners) that he snapped his fingers again, loosing the occult bonds that enveloped the few still inside.

"Come on," he demanded, crossly - his arm still wound about Aziraphale's as he led them back the way they came. It was no leisurely walk, this time, and Crowley put forth extra effort to make sure they seemed quite _unremarkable_ along the way. He was glancing about them all the while - overly aware, hyper-focused on anyone else who happened to cross their path.

Aziraphale let Crowley usher him along back toward the cottage. His heart was pounding. The angel was silent, afraid of speaking a single word to Crowley. He was anxious of provoking his temper, which had seemed unusually absent prior to the odd encounter over breakfast. It was rare for Crowley to be so relaxed. Aziraphale felt, somehow, that it was his own fault for ruining their morning.

There were sirens in the distance. Undoubtedly fire trucks. Aziraphale disliked the sound, disliked fire in general. It reminded him of Armageddon. Though, he supposed, no one was hurt. Despite the circumstances, Crowley had seen it coming (whatever it was). The demon tried to avert it, and then, when he couldn’t, he fixed it. He always fixed it. Aziraphale did nothing. He _always_ did nothing.

Aziraphale was confused and anxious and incredibly close to tears. There was a growing feeling of worthlessness in the pit of his stomach. The lovely morning had been ruined- all after such wonderful things. The sleep, the dreams. The waffles, the crepes. The holding hands in public. It was wiped away.

His cheerful, well-rested demeanor had soured considerably. He wasn’t even smiling. The angel kept his eyes on his scuttling feet, and he kept his mouth shut.

Crowley clutched his arm tightly the entirety of the trek back to the cottage. He hadn't been kind enough to put out the fire, feeling overly annoyed at the prospect of their nice morning ruined. And all by nothing more than a few overly-invested humans who couldn't simply leave them be - as he'd learned the moment his last-ditch effort had proven effective.

Funny how even the mortals didn't approve.

Still, the entire encounter had rekindled the demon's anxieties ten-fold. Who knew if it had been intended as a distraction; Hell wasn't above using humans for their own gain, and he knew Heaven certainly wasn't, either.

Even once they'd crossed the threshold of the door, closed it behind them, Crowley still hesitated to let him go. He was silent, peering intensely into the room before them, scanning diligently to make sure there wasn't a speck of dust out of place. It wasn't until he was sure - completely and utterly sure that nothing within the house was amiss that his hold on Aziraphale's arm slackened.

Crowley exhaled, a breath it seemed he'd been holding since he rushed the angel out of the restaurant. He didn't move away. Didn't aim any cutting words, didn't yell. Instead the demon leaned into Aziraphale, wrapped his arms tightly around him, and buried his face into his neck.

The angel stood there motionless for a brief, composing moment, aimless, until he reciprocated the gesture. He wrapped his arms around the demon, pulling him closer. His lower lip quivered, but he fought back the tears. No crying. Not today. At least… not now.

He inhaled the demon’s scent, grateful to be this close. To be safe, and in his arms. To have the ability to be on Earth, together, despite their many obstacles. Crowley smelled like cologne, and coffee, and crepes, and _Heaven_. Aziraphale closed his eyes, drinking in the aroma, nuzzling against the demon’s face, his hair. Enjoying their closeness.

His thoughts snagged. Backtracked. A crease formed in his brow. His grip on the demon tightened. _Heaven._ Crowley smelled like _Heaven._ Why did Crowley smell like **_Heaven_**? Aziraphale cursed himself for sleeping- of course, it was all _sleep’s_ fault- had Aziraphale been awake, Crowley would certainly not smell like Heaven. Was it to see _Michael?_

He abruptly broke their contact, holding the demon at arm’s length. The angel’s face was twisted with sorrow and fear. He noticed the marks- the only visible evidence of their love- were gone. “What did you do?” he nearly shouted, the tears he’d repressed so dutifully already spilling onto his rounded cheeks. “When did you go?”

The only thing Crowley felt in the moment was relief. Relief that it hadn't been something more dire, more dangerous. His hold on Aziraphale tightened, his thin form practically melding into the other's.

Then Aziraphale was pushing him away. His brows knit in overt confusion. "When did I go where?" his tone was thoroughly mystified. Crowley earnestly had no idea what the angel might've been talking about; it didn't occur to him that Heaven had a _scent_. He'd been too far removed from it for too long.

" _What_ are you talking about?" he reached out automatically, in a concerned effort to thumb the tears from the other's cheek. His own tone was quieter - equally fearful in its own right, though he wasn't sure why. He knew the look on his angel's face couldn't mean anything good - and he knew it was directed at him. But it didn't make sense. Gabriel's visit, he thought, was the only thing Aziraphale might be upset about - but he didn't know how he might've figured it out, nor how his questions related to it.

Aziraphale slapped the demon’s hand away, turning his face to avoid the false confusion in his lover’s eyes. “How dare you lie to me! _When did you go?_ ” He walked several paces away from Crowley, attempting to put distance between them, as if it would dull the hurt. His tears blurred his vision. He didn’t bother wiping them away. There would be more, and he would be crying for quite some time. Maybe forever.

“And _of course_ you healed them away!” he spat. “Is that all you wanted, then?” Aziraphale felt like his world was crumbling into a million shattered pieces. Perhaps too broken to put back together. He didn’t think he’d ever be whole again. He added, quickly and tearfully, his voice breaking midway, “You’ve had it! So I suppose you can leave now!”

Crowley was staring at the hand Aziraphale'd slapped. He flexed the fingers slowly. The angel's words still weren't making any sense to him, but they burrowed under his skin all the same, invasive weeds of uncertainty.

"I.." He took a half step after him - stopped - looked at his hand again. His mouth slightly agape. The words twisted in his thoughts because he didn't understand the riddle he was trying to solve, didn't understand where it'd come from, why. His gaze shifted back to Aziraphale.

He stared at him imploringly, for a long moment - hoping the other might give him something more to go on. He did, and the confusion on Crowley's face underwent a slow transformation. First came the dark shadow of immense hurt - it showed in every line, every feature, but particularly in his eyes, which widened as they would at the hand of physical pain. He recoiled visibly, and his furrowed brow lofted - only to immediately harden again into something else entirely.

 _Anger_. Aziraphale'd seen this type before; this carefully contrived, piece-meal representation he'd managed to uphold every time it seemed anger would be better to harbor than the disappointment, so palpable he swore he could feel its constriction around his heart. Anger could be redirected; it could be controlled. Today it was slightly more volatile, paired with a look of incredulity that seemed out of place for its earnestness.

Six thousand years. For six thousand years he'd followed him. Served him. Saved him, time and again. Had threatened to leave, but never could. Not without him. He never even tried. Somehow, he _still_ didn't see it.

"Where else do you think I have to _go_?"

Aziraphale turned to face him. The angel’s face was red and blotchy. Tears like floods against his sweet, soft face. His lips were trembling; face scrunched into an expression only fit for broken bones or burnt flesh. Pain. It was pure, debilitating pain. His blue eyes showed only anguish.

“I’m sure you can run back to your _friend_ in _Heaven_.” He scoffed. Unfortunately possible, it hurt even further that the demon would lie to him, even when he’d been caught red handed.

“Two angels in one night. I suppose that’s _evil_ enough for you, is it? Both in love, too? Or just me?” He was overcome with the emotion, the destitution. His wings sprang forth, knocking a few decorative pieces from the side table next to him. They crashed to the floor, shattering.

The angel beat his wings once, as perhaps a bird recovering from a fall. A single grey feather, dislodged by the wings’ movements, floated in the air between them. Aziraphale watched it flutter to the ground with a sob, and then collapsed in on himself, covering his body with his wings. As if they were a shield, they separated him from Crowley, sparing the angel from having to look into his eyes. From having to _remember_.

Crowley could feel his heartbeat behind his eyes. The immense pressure of thousands of years of love and devotion invalidated all at once, rendered null in the face of the other's accusation. It flaked away slowly as the realization set in, as chipped paint on aged wood, somehow still vibrant after so many years, so carefully tended and yet suddenly it seemed so _ugly_. He wanted to scrape it away.

The black bag appeared in his hand, and Crowley overturned it toward Aziraphale. There was the rustle of cloth hitting the floor, the unnecessary clothing strewn before him, followed by the thunk of the wrapped dagger, the knives. The rosary clacked coldly onto the wood floor beside Aziraphale as it spilled from its wrapping when thrown.

"Gabriel came while you slept." The words were curt, and cold. No witty interjections. "I thought he'd come to hurt you. He didn't, believe it or not. Came to tell me Michael has it in for you. Wants to give you over to Hell. Teach you a lesson."

The ring's box clattered to the floor beside Aziraphale as well. Crowley dropped the bag.

"I panicked when he told me. He healed me so we could try to decide how best to stop that from happening without my mind in the way. Healed _everything_. I didn't have much of a choice."

He stood there, motionless, watching Aziraphale. He still wanted to go to him - to comfort him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn't.

"He brought these. Gave them to me so I could protect you. The dagger will exorcise demons," his tone was still hollow. "The knives are consecrated. That ring," he gestured unnecessarily to the box - it wasn't like Aziraphale was looking, "will protect you from illusion. You'll see through possession, through everything. I'd wear it. You trust too easily." Just not him. "The rosary will connect you straight to him. He said not to use it unless you're dying, so fair warning if you catch him in a bad mood. Then again, that one was meant for me - imagine he'd be happier hearing from you."

Crowley tugged once on the lapels of his jacket, a sharpness to the motion that didn't translate to his tone.

"He told me not to tell you. But Michael will kill me anyway, and I've wanted Gabriel dead so long it's just as well I make sure she does it if I can't. It's _evil enough_ , yeah."

Aziraphale continued to weep. He didn’t apologize, and only half-believed the demon’s story. It seemed unlikely. Gabriel, going against Heaven? For them? Gabriel hated Crowley, and hated Aziraphale, too. He could never believe that Gabriel gave a demon his rosary. That Gabriel would commit treason against Heaven- the very thing for which the Archangel would’ve destroyed him.

It was completely preposterous. Nothing more than a temptation, for the demon to keep his claws into Aziraphale’s bleeding heart. Suddenly he didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t want to be on Earth anymore.

His spirit felt like it had been crushed into powder. Slowly, Aziraphale stood up, his wings still wrapped around himself, hiding his pain. He kicked the box away, lightly, but rejected it all the same.

The angel suddenly felt very _tired_ despite his lengthy rest. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to lock himself in his shop, get gloriously drunk, and cry into his books. Forever.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. His wings retracted with the pop of resetting bones. He felt cold and alone. And exposed. His eyes were red and already puffy, yet tears continued to flow.

He stepped forward, as if walking to the demon, as if he’d fall down at his feet and beg forgiveness. But he didn’t. Aziraphale didn’t even glance at him. No last looks. No imagery for his mind to gnaw on lonely nights, of which there would likely be many. He walked past the demon, opened the cottage door, and stepped outside.

The door slammed behind Aziraphale, more forceful than he meant it to be, yet simultaneously not forceful enough. The wood groaned as a lengthy crack split into it. He was determined to not look back.

The angel began walking. He’d walk all the way to London if it meant never thinking about this again. And while he knew that six thousand years weren’t easily forgotten, the memory of them would hurt less. One day.

Crowley didn't turn to watch him go. He stood there staring at the items scattered about the floor, briefly recalled the renewed faith they'd given him. It was like a sick joke, every time. Maybe it _really was_. Maybe the Archangel was having a laugh right now and he'd played right into his hands.

It didn't really matter, he reasoned.

He packed the items anyway, knowing full well that he'd need them eventually. Aziraphale didn't trust him - but he never really had. It hadn't changed anything before. Never for very long, at least. He doubted it would be any different, this time.

The demon meandered through the rooms of the home, ensuring everything was back where it was when they first arrived. Nothing out of place, no wayward feathers. He didn't keep any souvenirs.

When he was eventually satisfied, he left. The door shut behind him with no crack in sight.

He'd wait in the Bentley for a while - a while after he'd sent the vacant cab speeding down the country road, just innocuous enough that Aziraphale might take it. Then he'd set off to the flat.


	16. Please the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Shit gets dark, yo. Vague details of torture, general Hellish grossness below. Also, bugs, because Beelzebub.

The bookshop hadn’t been open for weeks. In fact, according to the new sign on the door, it might actually be closed forever. No one knew what the unusual, but lovely, man got up to. All they knew was the sign read “Closed indefinitely”. The lights hadn’t turned on, either. It seemed as if A. Z. Fell was gone.

Except he wasn’t. Mr. Fell left each day- from the back entrance- and went to church. Each morning precisely at nine o’clock sharp. He hadn’t missed a day, and even walked in the rain.

The man was haggard. He was unshaven, which was particularly odd considering his usual well groomed appearance. Instead of cologne and spices, he had a constant reek of alcohol about his person, though never seemed to be completely drunk.

He had many unanswered messages on his phone, which now had been unplugged due to the incessant ringing. Even the owners of his favorite sushi restaurant called a few times. Mr. Fell previously came in at least twice weekly without fail, and they were concerned, you see.

At night the lights of the apartment atop the bookshop would be on. No one, save the priest, had any contact with Mr. Fell. His neighbors became worried, knocking a few times, wondering what became of the poor fellow. Even his baker stopped by, placing a gift on his doorstep of all his favorites. They went untouched, until an environmentally concerned passerby threw them away.

Aziraphale hadn’t eaten in weeks. His only human indulgences were drink and sleep. He’d been doing plenty of both nowadays.

It was dark and late, and he had finished his nightly bottles of wine. Drunken and filled with sorrow, he meandered around the bookshop in the dark. He didn’t know what book he wanted exactly- he would know it when he found it. He heard the door of his shop rattle.

“Go _away!_ We are _quite definitely closed!_ " He shuffled upstairs without a book at all. Truthfully, he hadn’t read as much as a newspaper in weeks. He grabbed another bottle of wine. It was dry. Red.

He eventually became so incredibly drunk, that he could barely see properly. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence in this new phase of his life, though it wasn’t particularly common either.

He had almost no time to react when the hand clamped over his mouth. He assumed, hoped, it was Crowley, who he hadn’t heard a peep from. He knew it was over. He knew it was his own fault, too. But, he still hoped.

It was the smell that tipped him off. A foul stench of sulfurous rot. The hand was ice cold. It wasn’t the warm, slender fingers of his- the- dark angel. There was a sharp, excruciating pain. He felt blood drip down the side of his face. And then, there was darkness.

“Haul the bastard out of here,” said a gravelly voice. “Come on now, pick him up. There- no, yes- not like that. Okay, no- you take a leg, I’ve got this arm. Okay, yes. Let’s go. Lord Beelzebub is waiting.”

The lights in the apartment were on. All of them. There was a broken bottle of wine, and the liquid pooled into the light carpeting. There were a few drops of blood sprinkled throughout the house and the shop, a trail leading to the front entrance, which was closed but unlocked.

* * *

In the underworld, several demons with great effort and less cooperation carried the angel. He was heavier than they expected.

"My lord,” greeted the same voice, sounding as if it had inhaled far too many cigarettes. “Here is the angel.” The Duke smiled proudly, his unclean face glinting in the dim, flickering lights.

Hell seemed angrier these days.

Beelzebub had noted it since War had been averted. The demons - the fallen in particular - were growing more impatient. Many of them, despite being told time and time again it was not coming, still hungered, still salivated at the promise of freedom.

The Prince of Hell could not grant them war, but scraps could be managed. Enough to keep them fed, enough to keep them _busy_ in the interim. They even had an Archangel - _the_ Archangel's - permission, which was more than enough to satisfy Beelzebub.

"Drop him." The voice rang out, flat and clear and _multitudes_.

With one hand outstretched, Beelzebub summoned a ring of Hellfire which spewed forth from the dirty concrete beneath them. It encircled Aziraphile and any other beings still in the vicinity - though none of them seemed bothered by the flames. They licked close enough the angel would undoubtedly be able to feel their heat against his skin, but no pain - not yet. Hastur could be a bit dim at the best of times; Beelzebub wanted to make sure he hadn't killed the Angel already.

Something dark, damp, a disgusting ichor dripped in a large _plop_ to the floor beside the holy being, spattering his fine clothing in black and a familiar sulfurous smell. It hadn't been intentional - just a roof-leak. One of many. Beelzebub was pleased with its timing, and their eyes narrowed, regarded the Angel, waiting to hear him speak.

"Hastur," the demand drawled across the room, voice carried on quiet, ever-buzzing wings. "Wake him up."

Duke Hastur kicked the angel’s ribs, and then retreated back to Lord Beelzebub’s side. It was a swift, forceful blow, that lead to a sound suspiciously similar to the cracking of bone.

The angel jolted up, and immediately recoiled at the ring of fire surrounding him. There was nowhere to recoil, though, the flames licking his clothing hungrily. One hand held his ribs, aching. It was difficult to breathe. His cracked ribs antagonized each breath. The sulfur stung his sinuses and eyes, and made him cough.

He looked around wildly, confused and disoriented, meeting the Prince’s gaze.

Beelzebub's expression didn't change. Not as they rose from the cold throne beneath them, not as they descended the few steps that led down to Aziraphale's level. There was a strange sort of grace to their movements; the shadow of the angel they'd once been evident in their posture, the rigid, slow steps and coldness that'd twisted throughout the years from light into overbearing, encroaching darkness which threatened to creep into one's soul at the mere sight of the Prince.

The cloud of flies around them droned angrily with every step, voracious and eternal. They flew unhindered through the wall of Hellfire as they passed through it, halted just before Aziraphale. Cold eyes, more grey than blue, pierced through his, took a moment to drink in the sight of the weakened angel before they drew nearer.

"Heaven," they announced, to a series of audible groans and hisses, as if the word burned the very spirits of those who'd gathered - were still gathering. The crowd around them practically abuzz with demons and lost souls who circled incessantly as their swarm of flies, eager to watch the show. " _Heaven_ ," Lord Beelzebub repeated, as if thrown off course by the response - the second utterance earned little reaction after they'd spared the room a glare in the sickly, fluorescent light which seemed glaringly bright and _stifled_ all at once, "Has asked us to give you the grand tour," each word fell from then slowly, like they took their time to bubble up from within and overflow, one drop at a time. "A certain Angel told us," they'd begun to circle him now, walking the perimeter of the crackling Hellfire, "you're considering a permanent residency."

An eager eruption of laughter spread throughout the room. Beelzebub paused to let it pass, to let the crowd revel in the _joy_ of the occasion. "As you can hear," they were close enough now for the flies to pelt his face. They bit, stung. "We are more than happy to _oblige_ their request."

The Prince of Hell did not seem the least bit fearful for their own safety; in fact, their expression suggested Aziraphale was nothing more than a maggot who'd found its way in on the bottom of someone's shoe - one they might stomp into jelly at the slightest provocation.

Aziraphale’s fear consumed every inch of his pure, unadulterated soul. The words barely registered, his mind collapsing in on itself, a madness swirling his thoughts.

“A… permanent residency?” he choked, the sulfur weaving its way into his lungs, burning his throat raw. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat sending pains through his ribs, which he still clutched tightly.

There was a horror that crept into his soul. It should have been circumstantial- as he sat here, in Hell, flies biting his face, hellfire licking his skin. The demons surrounding him. The Prince’s threatening poise. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t the fire, the demons, the Prince. It was his own foolishness that plagued him. His last words, to the one who mattered most, weren’t going to be ‘I love you’.

Crowley had been telling the truth. And despite this, he hadn’t listened. Aziraphale threw everything away. Threw away six thousand years. For nothing.

"We've heard all about your wings. Pity," the Prince's tone was flat, conveyed nothing but an utter lack of sympathy.

"It wouldn't have mattered if you and your demon _dog_ hadn't stopped the War," Beelzebub continued. Continued to stalk around him, though it didn't seem so much they were _stalking_ as they were investigating some new and immensely irritating presence in their domain. They stopped for a moment, behind him, as if they could see the white feathers glittering before them, envisioned them burnt black.

"Our dominion, our reign would persist in Heaven and on Earth," there was a fleeting coldness in their tone, behind their eyes that hardened the persistent aloofness into an icy hatred born of thousands of years of Damnation. "You could have had every worldy desire," Beelzebub set a foot flat to the center of Aziraphale's back, and pushed him forward with a strength their small form could not possibly possess. In that instant, as they drove him harder into cold concrete, it was personal. And then it was nothing; the wave of disdain fled them, crashing outward from the Prince to their subjects, who cried out furiously for vengeance. They were as one consciousness, wrought by the venom that flowed from the Prince's lips.

"But now you get to join us here. **Forever** ," their heel ground in, and as it did, the sole of their shoe glowed with Hellish fire. Curious, testing. They'd heard he could withstand it - wanted to see it for themself.

Aziraphale cried out as his face scraped the concrete, blood mixing with grime, embedding itself in his pale skin. He felt the tears welling in his eyes already, though their catalyst was not the physical pain. He held the tears, glistening in his eyes, determined to contain himself.

He hadn’t grieved what he lost. Who he lost. Why he lost it. He’d drowned it in the bottle, slept it away, and dreamed of better times. But now there was no escape from it. No denying it. It was lost and, he felt, all was lost with it. Destroyed by his own hand, his stubborn jealous foolishness, his inability to accept that maybe- just maybe- he was loved completely. He would spend eternity here in Hell. And he would spend it knowing that he was, for the first time in six thousand years, entirely alone.

The Hellfire singed his back, and the smell of burning flesh mixed with sulfur in the damp, pustulent air. The heat scorched his clothes, knitted them into his flesh. The pain was excruciating- there was none like it, nothing that he could imagine would ever be as painful- and he _screamed_. His voice broke, throat raw from the sulfur which had housed itself in his flesh, but still he screamed.

The pain dulled his thoughts, until nothing else existed, and the tears fell freely, mixing into the sooty muck plastered into his cheeks. They left clean streaks in their wake.

His wings unfurled, unable to be contained by his anxious, frayed mind. They were brilliant and white and Divine, stretching before him, flailing as the fire scorched the flesh between them.

Aziraphale screamed, and the legions of Hell cheered.

As his wings burst forth, the Hellfire around it stretched to accommodate their presence. Beelzebub wasn't going to allow him to burn away to nothing - not yet. They tilted their head with an idle sort of curiosity as they took in the sight of the pristine feathers. And they were pristine. They didn't note a fleck of grey among them.

It didn't sit quite right.

Michael'd lied. That was fine. They'd be foolish to trust an angel, more foolish to let _this_ angel escape their grasp. And Beelzebub wasn't stupid enough to end the theatrics prematurely, not with hundreds of spiteful demons frothing about them like Hellfire itself.

The Prince removed their foot from his back, and took in the sight of the embers that lingered, glowing, between his shoulder blades.

"So you do still burn," they observed, and resumed their slow stride around his crumpled form.

When they came to stand before him, they crouched, one arm draped casually across either knee.

"Does that mean your dog will still boil?"

The angel hadn't quite regained himself yet. Beelzebub didn't summon the patience to wait. They lifted one hand in an idle gesture, as they did dragging Aziraphale up by some unseen hold, until his face was inches before their own. Their features were all grey and rot, as if Pestilence had retired and made its home in their countenance, slick and oozing green in the flickering light. Something toiled grotesquely beneath the risen flesh of one cheekbone. A maggot, slick and writhing, edged its way from beneath the skin and dropped soundlessly to the floor between them.

"We'll find out," as if it didn't really matter. Their voice was quiet enough that only Aziraphale should've been able to hear it, but still, it thrummed outward, a plague of insects all its own. "When he comes to find you," their expression hadn't changed, hadn't faltered, merciless in its apathy. "We'll even let him see you." Their fingers coiled in toward themself, dragged him closer by proxy, until he could feel their breath on his face, sulfurous and tinged with iron.

"In fact," the Prince of Hell stood, allowing the Angel to drop heavily back to the floor. Their voice rang out again, as if they were speaking to the room, rather than Aziraphale- "we'll _bring_ him to you. We'll let you stay _together_ until you decide you've had enough. And once you kill him," if Beelzebub ever brightened, they might've then. They didn't. "We'll let you go." Beelzebub didn't want, or need Aziraphale to kill the demon. In fact, they had no desire to see Crowley killed. There wasn't any need for the angel to know it, however.

There was a pause, and they added, as an afterthought: "Unless he breaks and kills you first. In that case, we'll let your lot do the rest."

The stinging, burning misery between his wings cried with every movement the Prince forced from him. His ribs had a dull ache, which radiated into his chest now. A punctured, lung, he assumed by the ragged breaths which escaped him.

Aziraphale’s tears were still flowing, but his face was cold, hardened. His soft demeanor stripped slowly away from him. The sweetness in his eyes melted away, leaving a hollow emptiness which betrayed nothing besides hatred.

“We will _never_ kill each other,” he taunted, a twitch in the corner of his mouth. Despite everything that had happened between them, no matter the malice or bad terms; he would never even consider something so heinous. So disgusting.

No matter what happened between them, and whether or not it was gone between them, Crowley was his love. His one and only. Aziraphale would rather be here, for an eternity or longer, destroyed repeatedly in every imaginable way. He would give his _soul_ to keep Crowley safe. Renounce everything. Renounce God.

Aziraphale looked like an angel now. His features were cold, daring. His eyes goaded the Prince, as if he had a chance, as if leaving this place were an option. The angel didn’t have a warrior’s heart, but he was one in practice, and it was easy to see The Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Easy to see the angel who had slaughtered during the Great War.

Abruptly, the flames licked inward. Soared toward Aziraphale's wings until they caught at the edges of pure white, burning them black, lapping over them in violent flickers that were so blatantly _controlled_ not to spread, not to _kill_ but to maim, to singe the down away to nothing but melted ash. It didn't coat his wings, didn't envelope them completely, but burned bright at their edges as Beelzebub turned on their heel to regard him.

Their features had hardened, the fire reflected in their eyes as if wrought by their gaze. "After you see what we do to him, you might. But it doesn't really matter. We specialize in _eternity_."

Beelzebub had slaughtered during the Great War, too. Had slaughtered mercilessly, without question, without fear or hesitance. Though Aziraphale didn't know it, they'd even drawn first blood. They'd slaughtered many more since. Had claimed innumerable lives, innumerable souls that toiled around them, in the pits beneath their feet, burning for eternity and more.

The Prince saw the Angel.

They didn't care.

"Start him at the second floor. Give him the grand tour," they droned the command and turned their back to the Principality, striding toward their throne. "Show him the full extent of the Almighty's _mercy_."

As if they'd been let off-leash, the throngs of demons surged forward toward the angel, the blaze about him ceasing all at once. Instead he'd be assaulted by their burning hands, their _vengeance_ , as if at any moment they were a breath away from ripping him, limb from limb. Even the worst among them knew that death was a better fate than the punishment awaiting him below, and they ferried him there with unrelenting glee.

* * *

Lust. It began in the second circle. There was an expansive, all consuming emptiness. The discomfort soaked into his body, which at this point was weary and broken, and he was uncovered, shamed. The stone beneath his feet was cold. It seeped into his bones, making each step more painful than the last. Onward he walked, hands bound in front of himself, the demons parading his injured, naked form for all to see.

Suddenly the scenery would change, shimmer like a mirage before him. He would be fine. Whole. Crowley would be there, mouth hot and generous, bringing him towards absolution. The throes of passion would be upon him, the warmth building, coiling itself into his stomach, on the edge of satisfaction. But, then he would awaken, again, lying on the cold stone, face flushed with lost pleasure, demons jeering at him in his excitement, his shame. It went on for what seemed like forever, and by the time he’d entered the next realm, he’d had the demon in every possible way, and was denied in all of them.

Gluttony. He moved onward, an icy rain pelting through his robes. He felt the bones of his ribs peering out, and his thoughts were hungry and crazed in starvation. He could smell it all around him- the food- and it caused a deep seated, ravenous ache in the pit of his stomach. He was weakened considerably, crawling by the end, fingers outstretched before him nothing but skin and bones. His skin sagged against the hollows of his cheeks, the energy draining from his emaciated body.

He walked on, always, whipped and battered by the mob of tormented souls, unable to rest even for a moment. He’d stepped through them one by one: Greed, Wrath, Heresy, Violence, Fraud, Treachery.

Each left him more broken than the last. More alone, desperate for the love he’d once had. Crowley’s love. God’s love. Anything. The frigid, overflowing emptiness of his soul left him devoid of light. Devoid of Divinity. Devoid of everything.


	17. The Reason, Dear, Is You

Over the past weeks, Crowley had left his apartment exactly six times. Each time it'd been for the sake of an aimless walk to the bookshop, where he'd linger in the shadows, watching. The fact that Aziraphale didn't want him didn't change the fact that Michael had her eyes on him, that Hell had their eyes on him, and the demon was still circling, protecting as vigilantly as he could at the risk of the angel spotting him, striking him down.

He didn't really think he would, but he knew now, knew that he'd never be anything but a demon to him, unworthy of trust, unworthy of love. No matter how much he tried to fool himself. There'd never been an _our_ side - just Aziraphale's. Crowley was still on it because it was the only one he knew.

He hadn't been drinking. Hadn't been sleeping. Hadn't been doing anything but waiting anxiously by his phone, pacing the flat, checking on Aziraphale. He'd called a few times from different numbers, just to see if he'd pick up, if he'd be able to hear his voice, to make sure he was safe - but he never had.

All he'd had to go by were the lights in his apartment.

Tonight, far later than usual, they were still on.

It wasn't like Aziraphale slept. Maybe he was just reading - maybe, he thought with a sinking feeling, he'd gone _home_.

It almost made him walk away. Almost.

Crowley lasted two hours, staring, worrying, before he strode to the bookshop and went inside.

Not five minutes later, the demon was back in the flat, furiously smearing his own blood into a wide circle on the office floor. Creating a sigil. The bag containing the holy items rested beside him, the dagger grasped carelessly in his free hand, not caring that it burned. He _wanted_ Hastur to see the smoke rising from his palm, wanted him to know that he had the means and capacity to kill him in an instant, no gambles this time.

Crowley stood just outside the circle, and spoke Duke Hastur's name. Demanded his presence, his tone cold and unyielding.

He wasn't emotional. Wasn't fraught with panic. Crowley knew exactly what was going to happen.

Duke Hastur’s lip curled upward into a scowling smile. “Lord Beelzebub,” he began, his voice gravelling and grating, “Just as expected. We’ve company.” With an awful laugh, cutting the air like broken glass, he took his leave.

In Crowley’s apartment, the ground rumbled. There was a hot, magma-like pit which formed in the center of the sigil. The blood pooled downwards, as if being sucked into Hell itself, and steam arose, foul and putrid with the stink of sulfur.

Duke Hastur emerged, black eyes glittering with the prospect of Crowley’s eternally damned soul being crushed in the bowels of the underworld. The room was fouled by his unholy sulfurous stench, and it clung to everything it touched.

“Crowley,” he jeered, eyes dancing around the holy weapon warily. “How unexpected.” There was no hint of inflection in his voice- he didn’t try to hide their expectations. His awful, vile mouth was twisted into a bedeviled smile, eyes shimmering maliciously with awaited pleasure.

"Hastur! Just the Duke I was looking for," Crowley's tone was almost cheerful, the same way it always was when he addressed his fellow demons, though there was a marked darkness to it that didn't usually exist. It wasn't taunting, wasn't chiding. It was murderous. Crowley strode forward without hesitation, lifting the hand which held the dagger, and gave it a little wiggle in front of him. "D'you like it? I got it special, just for you."

He stopped at the edge of the sigil, flashed Hastur a wide grin, twisted with malice. "It's a special occasion, after all. I know you've been waiting for it a _long time_. I've decided that you - Hastur! Duke of Hell! will be the lucky demon that gets to drag _me_ back down into the pit!"

He gestured wildly with the dagger. His own flesh sizzled around the handle, already terribly burnt and only getting worse - but his grip seemed entirely unhindered. "I couldn't help but notice you'd grabbed the wrong person the first time around," he tutted under his breath. "Big mistake. Working for Heaven, doesn't seem like the type of job you ought to be doing - _beneath_ you, really. But I'm sure Satan himself would be _elated_ if you made the trade for someone he actually wanted. What do you say?"

There was a momentary pause,

"You've got one chance to agree, by the way, or I'll cut out your tongue with this knife, stuff it down your throat, and waste an eternity seeing how long it takes you to choke on it."

The mirth had gone from his tone.

A number of open buckets were situated around the office, filled to the brim with water.

Hastur snarled at the demon as the knife came closer to his person. He observed the melting flesh of Crowley’s hand with dread, and realized that perhaps he shouldn’t have gone to see the lunatic alone. 

Crowley was clearly crazed- a fucking nightmare, flash and unpredictable. He was unhinged. Gone native. It was obvious- holy water surrounding them, smell of sizzling skin. The bastard had a holy knife and a disregard for life. 

“Yes-” he spoke too quickly, voice too tinged with discomfort. “Lord Beelzebub has been expecting you.” He gestured into the circle, as if saying _after you_ , not wanting to turn his back on the maniac. He felt a creep of doubt and it tainted his enjoyment. He was hesitant to bring this hysterical monstrosity to Hell- but, it was his duty.

"Oh no. No, no, you misunderstood, _Duke_ Hastur," the title was spat, Hastur's name edged with a snakelike hiss. "I'm not going to see Lord Beelzebub until I know the Principality Aziraphale is safe and sound in his bookshop. You're going to have to take care of that, first. Be happy to do it myself, but I know I'll have a full schedule."

Crowley was circling him, walking along the edge of the sigil, though he was particularly cautious not to step into it.

"You know well enough that Lord Beelzebub doesn't care about angels. But the demon who ruined Armageddon? Think of how _nice_ it would've been. Get out, stretch your wings... awfully cramped, trying to do it down there. Could've rained fire over the whole earth! What a sight it would've been. Think of the commendation you'll get, delivering the idiot who mucked it all up."

He wasn't stupid enough to step into the circle without some reassurance.

He smiled wickedly. Lord Beelzebub had taken care of the details. Had expected and predicted the encounter. Hastur had nothing to fear- and nothing to ruin. His Lord made sure of that. 

No commendation would be worth half as much as dragging the traitor into Hell himself. In a low, growling voice, he gloated, “Everything has been arranged for the _angel_.” His face was nearly gleeful, as if he were privy to secrets concerning the matter.

“The _angel_ has been in Hell for so long now,” he laughed, cruel and discordant, “ _It_ might belong with us now. Don’t think those wings are white anymore. They’ve been giving it the _grand tour_.” He refused to refer to the angel as a person. _It._

He sneered, eyes taunting Crowley, amused by the very notion of the demon _being in love_. It would be additional firestarter- the love would be his undoing. 

“Every moment you dawdle, the angel suffers for it.”

Crowley didn't trust Hastur. Not as far as he could throw him, which he couldn't.

But Crowley did trust that Hell was more intent on having him back than they were torturing Aziraphale, much as they might've liked it in the interim. Besides, he'd felt the barest flicker of warmth, as if something had changed in the world, corrected itself - his angel, undoubtedly, returning home. He hoped it was, hoped it wasn't just his mind playing tricks to make any of this seem more sane.

The other demon's words sent a rush of cold through Crowley's body. Hastur had never actually frightened him, no matter how hard he'd tried - this time, he succeeded.

Behind his glasses, his eyes softened - saddened. It was his fault. He should've been there, should've never allowed it to happen in the first place. For Aziraphale's torment, he deserved whatever punishment was due to him. He'd been through the circles, undergone his own _penance_ , he could only imagine what new and interesting methods Hell had devised for its ultimate traitor. Bit like Lucifer, he mused. God made Hell for him. He could only imagine what came after Hell.

"Aziraphale will always be Forgiven," Crowley said simply. Honestly. Echoing the Archangel Gabriel's words -- believing them.

He glanced about the room. His gaze lingered on the top row of his bookshelf.

The dagger clattered to the concrete, and Crowley stepped into the circle.

Aziraphale found himself on a bed, quite similar to his own. The angel looked around wildly, sweat lingering on his pale brow. He was thin, sallow. The robe he wore was loose, falling down around his shoulders, spilling over his weakened frame. His breath was ragged, heart thrashing violently, and his muscles were tense with expectation.

There were scars on his back, he could feel them, stiff and aching. He cowered, anticipating the flaming whip’s crack against his torn flesh. He was waiting to wake up. Waiting for the pain to thrash him into darkness. It wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t real. 

Hastur loosened a victorious laugh. It was full and piercing, lacking both beauty and rhythm. After scanning the apartment, committing the moment of triumph into the tomb of his memory, he prepared himself for glory. He stepped into the circle, following the bastard into the pit. 

* * *

“My Lord,” Duke Hastur rejoiced, voice cackling and infectious with vicious intention. It reverberated around him, a blight against all ears. “I present the demon, Crowley.” The blackness of his eyes were hungry, a dangerous shadow, seeking vengeance and malice. “The _angel_ has been exchanged”.

For thousands of years, Crowley'd only ever used the main entrance.

He hated the feeling of being dragged through the ether, from one realm to the next, the particularly icy grip Hell claimed on one as they got close to it; it reminded him of the Fall. Still, he found his footing the moment he materialized before Hell's Prince.

He bowed, halfheartedly. "My Lord." Even now, the biting sarcasm was still present in his tone.

Beelzebub was silent upon their throne. Silent save for the drone of their flies, which seemed to well with malice the longer they gazed at the the demon Crowley. _Crawley._ He wouldn't have the luxury of choosing for himself anymore. Not ever again.

The Lord of Flies rose, and as they did there was the sickening crunch of bone, grinding, snapping, as Crowley sank before them, brought to kneel with immeasurable, crippling force. It was a rage comparable to only one other he'd felt, a rage like Satan's own, the same that'd sent him to his knees him on the brink of Armageddon. He barely registered it through the agonizing pain, an invisible crushing force that sent him lower, until his head nearly touched the ground. He couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

"You've done well, Duke Hastur."

Beelzebub walked nearer, slowly descending the stairs.

"Denizens of Hell," their voice rang out, vibrated through the nine circles, into the darkness and brimstone and Hellfire and blood beneath their feet. "The traitor Crawley has been returned to us," their eyes glinted dangerously in the light as they moved in a half-circle around him, hands interlocked behind their back. "And the traitor Crawley shall be yours to punish. It is the will of our Master,"

Crowley growled through clenched teeth as the pressure worsened. His head jolted sharply into the floor, one half of his sunglasses shattering on impact.

"That he be made an example of, as _all of you_ see fit. Duke Hastur,"

They turned to regard him, in all of his vengeant, rotting glory. "As a reward for your triumph," though they knew it was theirs - morale was always important, and there was none without sacrifice - "The first punishment is yours to decide. Take him," with a wave of their hand, the pressure diminished.

Crowley didn't rise from the floor. He wasn't listening. He was praying, silently, that Aziraphale was free.


	18. Where the Black Angel Did Weep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains sensitive themes. [Non-consensual sex (not graphic); violence/torture]

Hastur’s smile was deplorably wicked. Crowley found himself strapped to a chair- perhaps, an outdated defunct electric chair- the leather straps digging into the demon’s skin enough to draw blood. 

“Won’t be needing those,” he teased, flinging the glasses off the demon’s face with an inconsiderate flick of the hand. The bastard’s eyes would be open for all of it, Hastur made sure. Not even a moment to spare for blinking. 

“You will love this,” he cooed, his voice rasped, not suited for the task. His diseased hand gripped Crowley’s shoulder, enough to bruise, and he made it a point to blow his cigarette smoke in the demon’s face.

The lights dimmed independently, and it was almost like being in a theater. Duke Hastur smirked, rotted teeth glinting against the dim light. There was a projection, but the scream was heard before the picture cleared. Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale was on the screen. Naked, whipped, being punished with Hellfire. Starving. Crying. Screaming. Half-dazed, muttering nothings to himself. “It had a lovely time down here,” Duke Hastur whispered in Crowley’s ear, uncomfortably close, his rotten breath forcing itself upon the demon’s senses. “Screamed for you, too. You’ll see.”

The angel was in Lust. Calling out for him, painful pleasure in his visage. He was forcibly unclothed, demon’s surrounding him, decrepit skeleton hands running their fingers through the angel’s hair, up his thighs. His voice was raw, screaming protests, begging for Crowley, begging for God, begging for death. The tears never stopped. One after another, neither did the demons.

“Hours of footage,” Hastur plagued, voice sticky with malice, oozing wicked delight. “All the highlights.”

Violence. Aziraphale’s face was swollen and bruised. Each blow landed with a sickening pop of broken bones, blood pouring down the angel’s face. Rough hands choked him, his body going limp, only to be jolted awake with another disgusting crunch of flesh. The fists were eventually replaced with a hammer, one by one his joints dislocated, destroyed. Aziraphale’s anguished cries rang out, unanswered, ignored. He was healed, and tormented again. Each time with a new tool, in a new way. His wings were crushed, broken, cut off, burnt. His bones were broken, tendons sliced, limbs removed. There was no limit to the torture. Healed, destroyed. A cycle of despair.

* * *

Aziraphale was wide eyed. He crept through the shop, shaking, terrified to make any sound at all. Nothing seemed real. He couldn’t trust anything, not anymore. Tears were in his eyes- seemingly a permanence to them, affixed as a limb. He tried. He had to be brave. He had to make it. If it was real, he didn’t have far. 

He only wanted Crowley. The security, the safety, the love. His soul starved for it. Darkness and nightmares wrapped themselves in his thoughts, a manic madness, and there was only one thing he knew. Only one love he knew to be there. One person he knew to be safe. One thing he knew to be real.

* * *

Crowley was silent. Unresponsive. He moved as bidden, reacted to none of the pain, none of the Duke's sickening utterances.

At the sound of Aziraphale's scream, his eyes widened, but only a fraction. The gold-yellow irises seemed to expand, to spread, swallowing the whites. His fingers tightened on the arms of the chair - hard enough to leave indentations, nails splintering into the wood.

There were no other signs of distress. Crowley watched closely, but he wasn't looking at Aziraphale on the screen. He was silently staring, taking in the face of each and every creature who laid their hands on him, who hurt him, tormented him.

The edges of his eyes tinged red.

Crowley'd lived through this before. He'd played it out in his head, late at night, shamefully, whenever his fear of Hell reared its head. He'd known exactly what they would do. He'd lived with the thoughts for thousands of years, lived to prevent them becoming reality. And he'd failed.

He didn't even know for sure whether he'd been able to stop it. He assumed so, because if they still had Aziraphale he wouldn't be watching on a screen. It was a small comfort, but it failed to take purchase. It tried - and he tried desperately to hold onto it, to find something, anything - the slightest hint of good in a world where Aziraphale could be forced through such merciless torment.

In the end, it slipped away. The demon could feel traces of Anthony J. Crowley began to slip away, too. He didn't exist. Not here. Not without Aziraphale. The fallen angel that replaced him, the demon Crawley, the _Serpent_ was far less merciful. Was far less forgiving.

He would survive. He would find them, one by one, and swallow them whole. It didn't matter how long it took.

He'd have all of eternity to try.

Duke Hastur laughed at the worst offenses, whispering rancid, venomous words to the demon, basking in the anguish of his angelic lover. The rapes ( _’looks like he enjoyed that one, eh?’_ ), the dismemberments ( _’not like he needed two legs to sit down’_ ), the blackened flesh ( _’Suits him, doesn’t it?’_ )- he delighted in them all. He laughed particularly hard at its hysterical, hollow cries for Crowley and for God, as if they were one and the same. “You did this, Crowley” he mocked, “Your angel is as good as dead.” 

Hours of torment later, Hastur forced the demon up, pushing him back to Lord Beelzebub. His face was sickeningly joyful, diseased with malignant delight, black eyes glowing with cruel contentment. “It is done,” he stated proudly, victoriously. “He is all yours, my Lord.” 

* * *

Aziraphale was on the streets of London, panicked. People- Demons?- Everywhere. He felt exposed, endangered. It was all he could do to contain his fright, which overtook him at times, so thoroughly and desperately that he stumbled.

He found the apartment, wearily made his way to the door. He slumped against it, and cried out. He sobbed apologies, and confessions of love, and promises of forever. But he heard only silence. A suspicious amount of silence. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe they were waiting for him inside. Waiting to defile him, or maim him, or starve him.

He checked the door with a frail shoulder, dislocating it in the process, but cracking the door at its hinges. He snuck inside, breath shallow and rapid, fear gripping his heart in a strong, crushing grasp. “Crowley,” he whispered, weak and imploring. 

His eyes swept the room, and he wandered through the apartment. Every shadow was dangerous. Every unknown creak in the floorboards. Even the long stretches of silence were threatening. 

It was in the office that he saw the circle. The summoning. The rosary. He grabbed them with eager, shaking hands, and held them to his lips. The tears fell, hot and clinging, as he prayed, begged. He was desperate and wild, his fear provoking a manic frenzy, panic tightened his chest and he gasped for air. 

He appeared. The house rumbled and shook, the light flashed into Aziraphale’s eyes. And there he stood. Towering, strong, heroic. The angel collapsed at his feet, and the Archangel needed no explanation.

* * *

As the hours went on, Crowley's rage only grew. Blossomed into something unfathomable, something worthy of the deepest pit of Hell and beyond. The wood behind him splintered as his wings expanded unbidden, sleek and black as pitch - not a fleck of grey to be seen, the sound of cracking bones audible as they burst forth in the limited space behind him.

_You did this._

He had.

_Your angel is as good as dead._

He wasn't, he reminded himself. He wasn't. But he'd never see him again. There was nothing left. Nothing left within him but blind hatred. It had all been stripped away. If he'd still had faith in anything it'd burned away completely as he bore witness to Aziraphale's pain.

Lord Beelzebub nodded in approval when the demon Crawley was returned - once again forced to kneel. Their voice rang out. "Dagon," the demon was there in moments, head inclined toward Beelzebub. "Take him and do your worst." There was a pause, in which Beelzebub regarded Crowley, who was looking more like a proper denizen of Hell. "Might want to take care of those wings - he won't be needing them down here."

Dagon smiled. In an instant, Crowley's wrists were bound. They dragged him by his chains, deeper into the sulfurous pits.


	19. Hell's Graveyard is Damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Beelzebugs and violence, the aftermath of torture.

Gabriel appeared, electricity sparking the damp, sulfurous air around him. His eyes glowed a radiant, dangerous violet, glaring with ferocity. They were so bright it pained to see them, and they blinded the vile beasts with their Divinity. The Archangel towered over the lesser forms, the foul creatures gathered around him, preparing to strike him down. 

The bright light crackled around him, as bodies dropped limp and lifeless; it was effortless. The Archangel’s sword connected with flesh, burning through torsos and necks, a sickening smell of steaming rot clouding the atmosphere. He was animated by righteousness and vengeance, reckless with punishment and violence.

“ _Bring me your Prince,_ ” he boomed, his voice strong and commanding, echoing through the vast, dark emptiness. The power emanated off of him, smiting beings by proxy, the fearsome power of the Archangels unseen since the Great War. 

He was armored, and it shone golden and pure, a large cross-like spear clutched in his forceful grasp, a swinging sword in the other. Holy weapons. They seared all flesh within arm’s reach. His wings were spread wide, enlarging his formidable figure considerably. Demons scrambled in fear, deserting their posts, clambered over each other in an attempt to summon their Lord.

The moment the Archangel appeared, Beelzebub knew. They could feel it in the air. Could smell it, foul and _holy_ and pure. Their scowl deepened as they rose, narrowed eyes scanning ahead, searching out the chaos they could already feel beginning in holy flashes of light.

A wall of Hellfire bloomed to life before Gabriel. It stretched from wall to wall, consuming the corpses of fallen demons - forever lost. The flames roared with voracious fury, encircling him, outlining a wide perimeter that might halt his progression - at least for a time.

"Gabriel," The Lord's voice did not boom so much as it droned through the space, so loud it seemed to ripple the air around him, catching in the smoke which quaked in its resonance.

Lord Beelzebub emerged from the wall of Hellfire. Four tattered wings spread behind them, translucent and streaked with intricate veins spread like scales across their span, not unlike a locust's. The swarm of insects around them had thickened, almost to the point that they blanketed them entirely - only their face and the occasional glimpse of slick, black armor beneath them visible in the glow of the Hellish fire.

In one hand hung a coiled whip, barbed and inky-black. It dripped viscous black ichor which smoked and bubbled violently, tar-like, upon hitting the floor. "You trespass in _my_ domain," their voice was as a thousand, a mockery of the Angelic choirs of Heaven, a reminder of the souls that cried out in Hell. Their eyes had blackened, bore an iridescent fog like oil on water that trembled in the light.

"You strike down my subjects," the whip cracked sharply, threatening, striking a stark black line into the wall which seemed to melt beneath the substance.

" _Why have you come_?"

The Archangel was unfazed. Lightning flowed around his skin, wispy and fleeting, as if he were charged, ready to detonate. He stood with the ring of fire around him, holy spear firm in his grasp, readying it to be thrown through the vile monstrosity at a moment’s notice.

“Release the demon, Crowley. It is for this soul that I have come." His voice was deep, echoing in the space around him, his words firm and authoritative. They dared the Prince, unwavering in the face of their unholy strength. It wasn’t a question. It was a _command_.

Gabriel’s golden armor glinted in the light of Hellfire, throwing sparks of light around them like glitter. It shone through the darkness and smoke, reflecting against the fog like a thousand fireflies. It was a beautiful, yet fearsome sight- the Archangel and the Prince- and the energy ignited an aura around them, sure to decimate any and all lesser beings with its awesome power. 

“ _Release the demon_ ,” he repeated, steadfast and dedicated. The Divine light shone through his eyes, rippling through the shadows, and he beat his wings in expectation.

The glittering reflections in the fog were blacked out, gradually, as the insects continued to swarm. Hundreds. Thousands.

Beelzebub stepped forward through them, unwavering, unflinching. Their eyes seemed to focus on nothing, swallowed in black, motionless save for the fire dancing within them. There was no hint of fear; they had not feared Gabriel during the Great War, they did not fear him in Hell.

The Prince lifted their free hand, clenched it into a fist, and dragged it sharply down.

Immediately it was as if the very walls of Hell were crushing in upon the Archangel, the weight of millions upon millions of lost souls, the immensity of the power behind it so heightened by their presence in Beelzebub's domain.

"He is _my_ charge to punish," they dragged their hand down further, " _Hell's_ soul to claim," and further still, the weight it drew with it only growing with each motion. "Thou art not in Heaven, Gabriel; you cannot _command_ me here."

The Archangel gritted his teeth, faltering slightly, his Heavenly form bending beneath the weight of souls as Atlas with his stone. His ability to stand at all was a testament of his sheer will, his robust spirit. He would not back down.

“ _Release the demon,_ ” he demanded, composed despite the Prince’s might display of power. His muscles rippled beneath him, and a surge of holy light burst forth, disintegrating a number of insects before him. “Aziraphale’s soul was not yours to bargain”.

“Crowley is under my protection” Gabriel thundered. “Release him **now**!” The wrath in his eyes shone, a brilliant, jagged amethyst, Hellfire dazzling in their haunting beauty.

The whip cracked once more in the face of holy light, thunderous, a sound that seemed to shake the very foundation of the ground they stood on. A new sound followed, a low, persistent thrum, as Beelzebub's wings trembled, fluttered, looking for all the world like they might crumble at any moment and yet powerful enough to send the Hellfire behind them arcing back into the dim hall.

The swarm, unending, had worsened - flit at the Archangel in his radiant light, burrowed between the feathers of his wings, beneath his armor. Harmless, for the most part, but for their stinging bites. They relented as the surge of Holy light burst forth, and Beelzebub's wings folded, shifting unnaturally upon their back.

"The _angel_ was taken at Michael's request, and has since been released." The Prince droned, composed, save for their hand which clenched harder still. They took another step forward, all but daring him to attack. "What would you want with one of our own, but to strike him down?"

“What I want with the demon is of no concern to you,” he growled. His wings fluttered impatiently, irked as the stinging insects burrowed themselves beneath his pristine feathers. Pulses of holy light destroyed the insects on his person, radiating indefinitely, a beacon of God. 

“Michael was not acting with the Grace of Heaven.” He lowered his weapon as his suspicions were confirmed. A gesture of neutrality, though his guard was not relaxed. His hand tightened its grip on the sword’s hilt, preparing a defense, ready to spring if needed.

“The demon and the angel have suffered their punishments. They are to be left undisturbed” Gabriel, once again, insisted, “Release the demon, Beelzebub. I am willing to bargain for his soul.”

Gradually, the drone of the insects began to dissipate. The dark cloud lessened, and - after a moment longer than was strictly necessary - Beelzebub opened the hand bearing down that unseen force around them.

The whip remained at their side in one clenched fist, their usual, steel-grey gaze beginning to drift through the murky black. The armor remained, intricately carved and obsidian, all sharp edges and lines, as if it were hewn from glass, seeming to swallow the insects that began rapidly drawing back toward them.

They were still poised - still ready, in an instant, to attack - but no longer did they seem prepared to do so indiscriminately.

"The _Grace of Heaven_ ," they scoffed, scowling at the implication it existed in the first place. "What sort of bargain? The demon Crawley's soul is worth more to us than most," their eyes narrowed suspiciously, mouth set in its usual unhappy scowl.

Gabriel, once again, stood tall. His wings rippled, stretched wide, finally free from the horrid little creatures. The feathers almost shone in the darkness of the pit: bright, ethereal, impossibly white. 

His eyes were a beautiful violet, but his sharp gaze lessened their attraction. His face was a smooth mask but handsome nonetheless. The Archangel’s muscles relaxed, no longer fearing an attack, nor itching for one. 

He made a sideways gesture, sword in tow, following his hand carelessly, and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Beelzebub,” he sputtered- back to his usual, cheeky demeanor- “Whatever it takes. Just tell me what you want”. 

The tension slowly left them, violence escaping the chamber as air whipping from a balloon. What was once fearsome, seemed ridiculous. Almost comical.

Beelzebub's own wings flitted with an unnatural rustle as they stared, absentmindedly, at Gabriel's. Then their gaze drifted, lingering on the corpses that encircled the Archangel. It wasn't with anything like sorrow - in fact, it was long suffering, enough so it earned a low, vibrating sigh.

"I wanted," they began, still eyeing the corpses, as if they were taking a mental tally, "to not have to write up twenty four incident reports," and as if that brief glance was all it took to register exactly who they'd been, the remaining bodies erupted in Hellfire, burned from the plane.

They were thankful, at least, for the fact that this corner of Hell was particularly empty at present. Cowards. But it meant they could speak candidly, without the usual pomp and circumstance.

"You don't strike a bargain without something to offer!" they spat, eyes darting back up to his - the complete opposite of Gabriel's, their own seeming to diminish the light around them. "The Legions of Hell know we have him. They will not give him up so easily; there's no-one else they would blame for withholding their freedom. It is _justice_."

“It is not justice,” he reminded them with a slight shake of his head, eyes unflinching. “They had their trials. They bested us both.” He rolled his shoulders and absentmindedly shifted a piece of his armor.

He chuckled, throwing up his hands, “They deserve peace, alright?” His eyes had a sparkle of amusement, a half smile on his lips. Possibly genuine. 

He stood tall, imposing. “I have plenty to offer. It isn’t my fault you don’t want anything.” It seemed like a loaded statement, but it wasn’t. Gabriel was just clueless about those sorts of things.

"Hell's justice," they reminded him, as if he'd forgotten where he stood, "Is different than Heaven's. He was tried and found guilty, and went unpunished."

Beelzebub lifted a hand, and pinched the bridge of their nose. For a moment their eyes squeezed tightly shut. A gnat escaped a tear duct.

When they reopened their eyes, the whip, the armor, were both gone. "The Demon Crawley does not deserve peace! Why would he deserve peace?!" It was loud, and decisive, and also not particularly emotionally invested. Almost a habitual response, as if they were used to the walls listening in.

Their jaw jut forward slightly as they considered the quandary, wings still shifting uncomfortably ever so often - they weren't accustomed to having them out, and it showed, like they'd never quite grown used to the change.

They were neither tall nor imposing, but sparked fear all the same.

"Michael," they said, suddenly, flatly, their gaze void of emotion as it settled on Gabriel's.

Gabriel looked upon the Prince with impatience. Their stubborn, rigid demeanor was taxing. It vexed him. “We all deserve peace,” he said pointedly, looking at them with confusion, his brow furrowed. 

He paced slightly, his movements fluid though not entirely graceful. The Archangel didn’t remove his armor, but the spear had vanished. He still clung to the sword- not entirely naive- but his grip was lazy, relaxed. Overall, it was clear the fight was over.

Finally he settled, looking the Prince up and down with a critical gaze. They were short, he observed. Too short. After a moment, he met their cold eyes with his smoldering ones. “Michael,” he nodded in agreement.

"By definition," Beelzebub retorted, their tone sharp to match the glare that accompanied it, "The fallen do not deserve peace. Nor are they yours to grant it to," semantics. Gabriel had never been detail-oriented. It drove them insane. Still.

Though their posture was not overly rigid, there was something quite regal about it - it was hard to pinpoint what. As if the angel had never really gone from them, despite their best efforts to appear as grotesque and far from one as ethereally possible.

Absentmindedly, they straightened their sash, which had drifted slightly out of place beneath the armor.

"And how do you plan to deliver Michael? When?" Their tone wasn't mocking. Not _necessarily_ \- just mostly. "You expect me to release Hell's most wanted mere hours after he's captured on the basis of an impossible promise?"

“I imagine Michael will try to deliver me,” Gabriel said with a grave sense of discomfort. He knew Michael would be out for blood- And that she would probably get it. He rubbed his temples with one hand. Nothing could stop the Archangel. That's what she was created for. 

“You know I can’t best Michael. We can’t overpower her separately. We’ll have to work together.” He started pacing again, a tinge of anxiety apparent in his steps which were a bit hurried. His wings fluttered, forgetfully, and several white feathers floated in the air. One landed on the Prince’s foot delicately. Gabriel hadn’t noticed.

Beelzebub stared as the feathers drifted before them, bright in the flickering, artificial light. Their eyes narrowed, and each burst into a tiny puff of smoke, burnt before they hit the ground. Except for the one on their shoe, which they shook off as most would a particularly nasty spider they noticed crawling up their leg.

"You saw what she did to me the last time _I_ tried," they reminded him, humorlessly, knowing he _wouldn't_ remember - though their tone wasn't overly affected. Their own wings spread for a moment, a brief but pointed _reminder_ for him. "And I can't exactly drop in Upstairs."

Beelzebub gazed past him for a moment, in thought - though their eyes kept flickering to him in mild annoyance. "Stop pacing!" they demanded. "Think with your brain, not your legs."

There was another pause, and the Prince looked up at the ceiling - looked as if they meant to stare through it.

"If we trick her into coming here, it will be simple."

He shrugged, still pacing. “I think how I think.” His armor was gone now, replaced by his usual grey outfit and scarf. It suited him better. The grey brought out the color of his eyes. While the armor did justice to his enticing form, the casual clothes softened his appearance. They made him seem more at ease, even if he wasn’t. 

“I don’t think we’ll need to trick her at all. She will come for me. And she will bring me to you.” Now, he did stop pacing, staring at the Prince warily. “You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t torture me, would you?” his head was shaking, and a nervous chuckle escaped his lips.

"It's why you don't think _well_ ," Beelzebub watched him, the irritation growing on their features as he continued to pace. They were a breath from moving forward to stop him, and had actually started to take a step when he halted of his own accord.

Still surly as ever, their foot lowered back into place as if they'd not planned to move at all. At his question, there was a brief flash of real anger, short-lived as it may have been. "You," they reminded him, coldly, "are one of the reasons I am here." They allowed the statement to linger between them for a moment, wings rustling in irritation once more.

"If I release the demon, and you deliver Michael, no. If we fail, I won't have a choice. I _cannot_ give them nothing."

It was the closest thing to a promise Gabriel would get. “Fine.” he said, clearing his throat, half-worried about if they failed. Gabriel wasn’t very keen on trading his own soul for a demon, despite Aziraphale’s innocence. 

He began to pace again. Not in thought; simply in anxiety. He straightened his already straight sleeves. Fixed his already perfectly placed scarf. He halted to address the Prince. “Release the demon.” After a brief moment, he flashed a smile- hollow, worried. “Please.”

Beelzebub watched him for a moment. Let him stew. It was one of the small pleasures in life, they decided immediately, as someone who had few of them.

"If you betray me," they began, approaching him once he'd stopped. The flies buzzed around them both, though none came into direct contact with the Archangel as Beelzebub looked up to meet his gaze. "If you betray me," they repeated, slower, mulling the thought over before it spilled, "I will find my way into Heaven, and I will drag you down myself."

With that, the Prince of Hell turned, and widened the distance between them. They spoke aloud when they faced him again, their voice again echoing, powerfully, _disturbingly,_ through the empty halls. Their eyes never once left Gabriel's. "Dagon. Bring me the demon Crawley at once."

Moments later, Dagon did. They appeared triumphant, blood-soaked, as they materialized alongside what looked, at best, to be a mutilated animal. The demon was still bound in chains. His skin was slick with blood, and looked to have been peeled back in places, exposing muscle, exposing bone. Still, he breathed. Raggedly. His golden eyes were slit open, unblinking, seeing nothing even as they seemed to gaze straight through Gabriel. One of them was reddened with blood. Crowley was unmoving, save for the occasional spasm of his mutilated wings - still attached, but razed to near nothing, as if the feathers had been plucked from them, one by one.

Through the blood, small patches of blackened scales were evident on his skin - not unlike the dustings of gold some celestial beings bore. Some of them had been forcefully scraped away. It was hard to assess the damage just looking at him, so thoroughly maimed.

Dagon froze when they noted the Archangel - looked nervously between he and Beelzebub, not once meeting Gabriel's gaze.

"Leave us," Beelzebub demanded, and the lesser demon was gone.

The Lord of Flies spared Crowley no more than a fleeting glance. They could smell the blood, the burnt flesh, the agony. Their eyes locked to Gabriel's once more. Emotionless, expressionless, save for the faintest hint of the anger that had flared there mere moments before. "Most of us," they was speaking as if to Crowley, though the message clearly wasn't for him, "are not spared our Condemnation. Most of us are forced to accept our Divine punishment. But Heaven _smiles_ on you, Crawley."

They didn't need to touch him, to heal his wounds. They wouldn't expend the energy to heal all of them - would do nothing for his mind. Beelzebub would not have tortured him so thoroughly, themself. They never did. But it did not pain them to see him writhing in agony when he'd ruined _their_ chance at ever escaping it. Still, they assured that - at the very least - he was not going to bleed to death the moment he left Hell's grasp. The bare minimum, perhaps, but then it was quite a kind gesture, coming from the Prince of Hell.

They turned, and began to walk away. Without looking back, their voice resounded, an addendum to their former threat: "If you betray me, your fate will be _far_ worse than his."

“I’m an angel of my word.” Gabriel spat, cooly, almost as if he was offended by the accusation. His purple eyes flared with a brief spark of bitterness. Angels were the type to keep promises- most of them, anyway.

Gabriel grimaced upon seeing Crowley so broken, skin peeled away, wings plucked and ruined. He looked away, unable to stomach the sight. Although he was not a stranger to violence, Hell had a much crueler, darker version of it than Heaven. He speculated that his fate would indeed be much more atrocious than this, should he fail, and he shuddered at the thought. 

He watched warily as the Prince healed Crowley- barely, but healed enough- and pondered the gesture. It seemed nice. Kind, even, for someone supposedly so ruthless. Did they all deserve to be down here? Deserve it for eternity? The Archangel tried not to reflect on it too much, though he felt that somewhere deep down he knew the answer.

He grabbed the demon, as one would carry a bride across the threshold, and hurried from Hell. Gabriel knew Aziraphale wouldn’t survive this sight. To spare him, he materialized them into the bookshop, determined to heal the demon himself.

He gently placed Crowley on Aziraphale’s bed, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I just went into Hell, alone,” he said, incredulously, to no one. “I’m a fucking idiot.” He felt a weariness creep inside of him- his spirit, mostly- a side effect of his recklessness and violence. 

He lay his hands upon the demon, and they glowed with warm, yellow light. There was an emptiness in Crowley’s soul- it hungrily consumed every drop of Divinity he offered to it, nearly ripping it from the Archangel’s essence. The Light permeated the demon’s flesh, stitching together any mutilations, regrowing as many pitch black feathers as he could. 

The emotions were a black hole, a bottomless pit of despair; there was no telling what the demon had seen. Gabriel knew he couldn’t heal it all away, not if he wanted to keep his life. The most he could do was tend to the worst emotional scars, soothe their hurt as best he could. The memories wouldn’t fade, but they would lessen. They would be overshadowed by the light.

Good memories floated to the surface of the demon’s mind. Aziraphale, drinking wine sloppily, pouting at the dribble on his shirt. Their first kiss, hearts beating as one, melting together as if time didn’t exist. The angel chattering- about everything, nothing- the happiness in his eyes brightening up the world around him. 

The Archangel fell to his knees, a cold sweat on his brow. His skin was pallid, lips chattering with chill. Overextended. It was too easy to do, the demon’s wounds devouring every flicker of available Divinity. Gabriel recoiled, pulling his hands away, as if keeping them on Crowley for even another moment would be the end of him. He was weak, gasping for breath, and his muscles trembled for want of energy.


	20. Taking me Back Where I Belong

Crowley knew the smell, before anything else. Before Gabriel healed even an inch of razed flesh, before he'd taken a single breath not pulled forcefully through the thick blood in his throat, and the demon's fingers twitched as he was laid in the angel's bed.

_Aziraphale._

Torn asunder as his wings were, they struggled to flex beneath him, shuddering violently as if he thought they might actually work. He wasn't actually thinking it. He wasn't thinking anything, his body was reacting on its own, in what little panic it could muster, to Aziraphale's scent so prominent around him in what _must_ have still been Hell.

Gabriel's hands found their places on the demon's undone skin and Crowley loosed a wretched groan, half in protest and half in _pain,_ which he could suddenly feel in white-hot flashes as the shock fled his system - this wasn't Aziraphale, he knew, but it felt familiar, if not entirely safe.

Again, his wings struggled futilely to beat beneath him.

Consciousness - true consciousness - sparked again within his mind, ferried by the thoughts of his beloved which pained his heart so much as they did warm it. Almost immediately, sheer panic overcame, and his heart pounded, frenzied with ache and worry. He knew this smell. He knew the bookshop. Knew Aziraphale wasn't in it.

"Aziraphale," sounding more like himself - slightly more. Perhaps only by way of his immediate demand for the angel. " _Where's Aziraphale,_ " Before Gabriel had finished, the demon was already trying to pull away from him, frantic in his wild-eyed need to locate the angel. "He can't -- I can't leave him alone," it was almost delirious. "Help _him_ , not me - where is he?"

The whites of his eyes were still yellow, hazier in color, as if not all of the life had returned to them - as if it never might. The glittering black scales still marred his skin - curved from temple to cheekbone on one half of his face, marked his neck, dusted more prominent curves of bone. He was _frightfully_ pale, and smelled of sulfur, and blood, and rot, and all of the despair Hell had to offer - undeniably Fallen, undeniably evil, and intent on protecting his angel all the same.

Gabriel looked at the demon warily, unsure if he could trust him in the moment. The smell of sulfur irritated him now, in his exhaustion. His eyes stung and watered. His throat tightened, as if by allergic reaction.

“You need to get ahold of yourself,” he directed, a little quieter and weaker than he’d hoped. “Aziraphale is fine. You go to him like this, you’re going to scare him. He’s just been tortured by demons; pull yourself together”. He gestured to the scales marring his skin. “You can’t see him like that.”

It was a fair point - but it wasn't what Crowley had asked, and he looked ready to explode at Gabriel until the other confirmed, _Aziraphale is fine._

The smell dissipated first. It wasn't gone entirely; he couldn't remove it from the space, and it clung to Gabriel too, for his proximity to Beelzebub. Still, Crowley tried his best to miracle it away, both from himself, from Aziraphale's space, and even the Archangel, exhausted before him.

Crowley was already standing, already wearing a new version of the same suit, crafted instantaneously from firmament alongside his glasses. Like nothing was wrong, like nothing had changed. The scales went as his wings did, sunken back into his skin.

"You can't go back Upstairs," it occurred to Crowley, suddenly. He didn't know what had transpired for Gabriel to come for him, didn't know why he'd bother. But he knew Michael wouldn't be pleased with it, one way or the other. He didn't know Gabriel well enough to be a half-decent judge of how stupid he was or wasn't, but based on what he knew of other Angels, he thought he at least owed him a warning. "They'll murder you."

Crowley was trailing to the far side of the room, rummaging through a drawer for the incense he knew Aziraphale kept there. He lit it with a trembling hand and left it to burn, hoping a moment spent in it might mask the smell, might help Gabriel, might do _something._

"Where is he, Gabriel?"

The Archangel sighed in blessed relief as the smell of sulfur was lifted from the air. His eyes trailed the demon, watchful and suspicious, observing his change into someone resembling a human- a bit more of one, anyway. “You let me worry about Heaven,” he croaked, voice cracking in lethargy, not daring to reveal his deal with the Prince. If the demon didn’t remember, it was for the best. A sign from God, he mused. 

Gabriel heaved himself onto Aziraphale’s vacant bed, and closed his eyes, feeling the incense soothe his troubled spirit. It felt unusual, being here. Being in Aziraphale’s _home_. In the bed of a Principality. The thought almost embarrassed him. 

With his eyes closed, and limbs quite heavy, he found himself wrapped in the angel’s blankets. They were luxuriously soft and comfortable- their warmth beckoning him to join them in slumber. They smelled like old books and spice- he hated it, yet, it was a welcome change from the scents of Hell. “Where do you think he is?” he snapped. His head ached and his thoughts became increasingly sluggish. 

After a moment, he muttered into the air, seemingly to no one in particular. He was half-asleep, words tumbling languidly from his throat, “Aziraphale summoned me, begged me to save your life. He’s in the office of your flat.”

Crowley's jaw clenched and he claimed a measured breath, stalking from one end of the room to the other. Trying to collect himself. To calm himself enough that he wouldn't overwhelm Aziraphale at first sight.

His patience only granted him about three minutes.

"Worry about Heaven -- I'll worry about Heaven as much as I need to," he spat. Heaven had done this. Heaven and Hell both.

"Stay here," Crowley demanded, firmly. Not that it looked like Gabriel was going anywhere, but this Angel was still unpredictable to him. Unpredictable enough the demon was standing there, rather than strung up like a fresh trophy kill in Lord Beelzebub's throne room. " _Please,_ " he added, grudgingly. "Until I come back."

He wasn't sure if he had the capacity to mind two Angels at once. But he owed Gabriel now, two-fold. The demon glanced around the room desperately, searching - eventually his gaze settled on a familiar book. He grabbed it with a slight wince and tossed it onto bed beside Gabriel; Aziraphale's Bible. One of them, at least. One he was sure radiated love, though he couldn't feel it. Just knew.

It was all the kindness Crowley had time for, and he was gone, leaving the Archangel in the comfortable warmth of Aziraphale's home.

Gabriel’s hand shot out, as if by its own volition, and curled around the bible. He brought it to his chest, hugging it like a child’s teddy bear. The Archangel was already asleep, wrapped tightly in Aziraphale’s plush bedding. Gabriel looked serene, if not slightly comical, his tall frame scrunched into the portly angel’s bed- which was designed for someone so opposite to Gabriel, it seemed like a joke. He began to snore obnoxiously. 

* * *

Aziraphale was laying on the floor of Crowley’s office, the rosary beads still clutched tightly in his frail grasp. He’d been like this for hours and the beads dug into his pallid flesh, marking it with dark, circular bruises. He felt empty, lost in darkness, his mind ruminating on the trauma and pain. Every so often, a whimper or anguished cry would escape his lips, and he’d hug himself tightly in an attempt to self-soothe.

His heart was heavy, and sinking further with each passing breath. There was a lingering sensation of fear- as if they were watching him, stalking him, waiting for the right moment to end the illusion, to shatter his bones and destroy his mind.

His robe hung loosely on his frame, thinned and weakened as it was. Aziraphale would hardly recognize himself now. The light was torn from the blue of his eyes. He was a husk- devoid of love and happiness- and he expected that, any second now, they’d drag him back into the pit and keep him for eternity.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley called the moment he appeared in his living room. His voice was hopeful, mournful, needing. He knew where he was already and made his way slowly to the office, forcing himself not to rush, not to burst toward him like he wanted to, like his heart demanded of him.

He kept his glasses on. Gabriel's words fresh in his mind, he wanted nothing that might remind Aziraphale of his torment visible.

When Crowley saw him, he froze. Immediately his eyes stung with the threat of desperate tears as the memories of his torment flooded him, seeing Aziraphale, broken, frightened. Wounded.

It was all because of him. He'd done this. He deserved to be in Hell - but he couldn't be. Aziraphale needed him. 

"Aziraphale," he repeated, quieter. "It's me, angel."

Aziraphale braced himself, as if expecting the demon to attack him, his eyes closed in fear. But he was brave. He had to believe it was real. He needed to believe it was real. “Is it… is it really _you?_ ” he whispered, voice trembling, desperate and thick with hope. 

He sat up and looked at Crowley, robes billowing around him. His cheeks were hollow and his muscles were rigid with apprehension; waiting for it, any moment, the white-hot fire, the crack of a whip, the kiss of a knife. The blue eyes staring at Crowley were nearly unrecognizable. They glittered with terror and despair, not a trace of light or joy, and his mouth was sculpted into nothing resembling a smile. His lip quivered in simultaneous sorrow and relief.

“Forgive me,” he pleaded, hands still wrapped around the rosary so tightly the skin on his wrist was a dark bruise, purple and black against the cream of his flesh. He was afraid to let them go, afraid to not have the pain grounding him. Illusions didn’t come with pain- as long as it was there, this could be real.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears erupting like floods against his sallow, colorless cheeks. “I let you go. I let you go _again._ I am stupid and selfish, and wrong. Please, take me back,” the sobs engulfed him, his grief a bottomless pit he would never climb out of, “I know I don’t deserve it. I need you. I can’t live without you. Please Forgive me”.

There was no mention of Hell or torture, though it was written in his features, etched into his soul. No matter what they’d done to him, being without Crowley was worse. Being without his love was more than pain. It was more than suffering. It plagued him more than anything they could do to him.

Every movement Crowley made in the following moments was slow, as nonthreatening as he could possibly manage to make them as he started toward Aziraphale. It was magnetic; he was drawn toward him like nothing else, made for nothing if not to be at his side.

He fought away the tears. Fought away the anger, the hatred he felt for anyone else. They didn't matter. None of it mattered, not with Aziraphale here and those tears streaming down his face and pleading for something he would never have to ask for, let alone beg.

"Angel," it was only a breath, his voice quieter and gentler than, perhaps, it'd ever been - fraught with concern and worry and love, "angel," he repeated again, as if to reassure him. Crowley slunk to his knees beside Aziraphale, slowly offered his hands out to him - not too close, in case he didn't want to be touched. Didn't want to be near him. He wouldn't blame him. "I never let you go. I told you already, you're never going to be rid of me."

He reached toward him - he couldn't help it - and his fingers brushed the back of the hand still gripping the rosary so tightly. It burned him, but Crowley didn't care. Before Aziraphale even had the chance to pull away the demon was allowing a bit of his own energy to seep into him, dark and indulgent and _warm_ , the bruise slowly fading to match the rest of his pale skin.

The circle beside them was gone. The Holy water was gone. Crowley wanted no reminders to linger, no more than they had between them already.

"I'm sorry," he murmured shamefully, "it took me so long. I'm sorry you had to wait." Sorry you had to go through it. Any of it.

The angel leaned towards him with a slight wince in his face; the anxiety screamed, its internal terror building, and he waited for it. The first blow. But he was not met with pain. He was met with warmth. A delicious warmth that fluttered across his soul like fingers brushed upon a lover’s skin. He shuddered, the _pleasure_ rippled through him, confusion and uneasiness flashed in his eyes. He cautiously allowed his hand to be in the demon’s grasp. 

Aziraphale drew himself closer still, a slight whimper escaping his lips as he moved- shoulder still dislocated- and he laid his cold, thin cheek on Crowley’s knee. That, too, was warm. He exhaled a trembling breath, as if taken aback by the sensation. He’d expected anything else, so much so that the angel simply forgot that warmth existed at all. 

His heart thumped noisily in his chest, beating faster with each passing moment. Terrified that it would all shimmer away. That he would awaken, face down, as the cold stone embraced his unclothed, battered form, as the darkness threatened to consume the last remaining slivers of his soul.

Fat, salty teardrops melted their way into the fabric of the demon’s trousers. The angel had an eternity’s worth of them, and they snaked their way down his chilled flesh, clinging to his neck and chin, to the loose fabric of his robes. Aziraphale said nothing- there were no words left for him to say, he’d already begged them all 1000 times over- and wept.

Crowley's other hand moved to frame the frail curve of his angel's shoulder, letting it rest there gently for a moment before that same dark energy began to weave its way into the joint, soothing the pain.

The demon didn't heal Aziraphale often. He didn't heal _anyone_ often. To do so scared him, in a way. He didn't understand why (or how) he was still capable of something so inherently good; he always thought it must have come with some terrible catch. Half the time, on the rare occasions he tried it, he expected the angel to jolt away in pain or further misery, tainted by the dark power as it coursed through him.

But he didn't, and Crowley's hand stayed there, and continued - even when the injury had been healed - to pour himself into the angel, his soul, his essence. He knew he couldn't accomplish anything like Gabriel had for him, once - but having felt it, and with the Archangel's Divinity coursing through him, he thought that maybe at least a shadow of it might help.

His other hand gripped Aziraphale's gently, the same warmth coursing into it, wrapping its way up the angel's arm and into the very core of his being.

"I'm sorry," Crowley repeated again, quieter. His head hung above Aziraphale's. Eventually, a few tears escaped beneath the glasses, one intermingling with the angel's on his cheek. The demon's tears came quietly, motionlessly as if they were only a troublesome aside, as if they weren't happening, would never happen.

Still, his spirit coiled its way through Aziraphale's veins. Wound itself around his heart, nestled between his ribs, his lungs, coiling him into an undeniably ethereal embrace. Trying to erase the cold stone. The cruelty. His pain. Crowley didn't deserve the assuagement; Aziraphale did.

"I'm so sorry. You won't - I won't ever let you see that place again."

Aziraphale’s coldness intertwined with the demon’s warmth, and their energies danced, twisting around each other, the act inherently vulnerable. The angel’s breath had calmed, and his cheeks regained his usual boyish blush. While the tears still fell, they lessened, rolling down his cheeks gently. He sighed in relief as his shoulder reset, despite the sickening pop that accompanied it. 

The angel found himself less encumbered, more receptive to Crowley’s unholy light. He seemed more confident in the reality that presented itself to him- less fidgety, less panicked. Aziraphale, while retaining his fear and trauma and heartache, for the moment seemed more at ease. He found himself drawn closer to his companion, mesmerized by the warmth and love, his soul ravenous for it. 

Aziraphale embraced him and laid his head delicately on the demon’s chest. He let their spirits mold into one, his heart and the demon’s no longer asunder, but fleetingly as one. The moment eventually passed them by, and the angel untangled himself, still staying physically close.

“Crowley, it isn’t your fault,” he whispered, a sweetness ringing in his voice- shallower than usual, but present all the same. “You _saved_ me. You saved me from…” he didn’t finish the thought. Aziraphale couldn’t bear for his dark angel to know the torments that befell him in the pit.

Crowley would let him take until he physically couldn't, bandaging his wounds with all he had to give.

His form slackened in something like relief when Aziraphale drew himself closer, but the demon only reacted, afraid at the potential to push things too far. He wanted to wrap himself in Aziraphale's arms and sleep for a thousand years.

He settled, once the angel had drawn away, for stroking the back of his hand with a thumb.

"I shouldn't have had to. Shouldn't have let them take you in the first place," but the assertion was weak. Crowley did believe it, with every fiber of his being - but he didn't want to argue it now. He'd come to terms with it already, in what he'd assumed had been the face of the remainder of eternity. He'd accepted his punishment.

He already knew he couldn't tell Aziraphale what he'd seen. What he'd suffered. Knew it didn't compare, and it wouldn't be worth the angel's undoubted heartbreak.

"Gabriel came," he redirected the course of the conversation before Aziraphale could argue the point, reaching with one hand to stroke his hair. "Because you asked him. Wouldn't have otherwise, I don't think. So you saved me, too."

The angel sighed, and allowed his eyes to softly close, a gesture of implicit trust in his companion, and in their shared reality. He _enjoyed_ the demon’s fingers curling in his hair, his fingers affectionate and warm, loving. The experience was so entirely different from _their_ hands, cold and tearing, clawing at his skin, ripping down his neck and…

His breath quickened slightly, accompanied by a furrowed brow, anguish painting itself on the delicate canvas of his face. The thoughts were so real, like he could feel their teeth and claws, mouths… He was gripping the demon now, tightly, unaware of his visceral reaction to the traumas weaving themselves into his thoughts.

“Gabriel came right away,” he said with relatively flat affect, his voice trembling, as he remembered the journey to summon him- the crushing, suffocating fear. “He must care about you. I’ve never known him to be so… so kind.” He buried his face in the demon’s chest, inhaling his scent. He tried to hold on, to find anything familiar, to bring his mind back from the pit.

Crowley could feel the shift as it happened, recognized it immediately for what it was. Gently, his hand cupped the back of Aziraphale's head, and any hesitation was foregone as he wound an arm around him - not gripping tightly, just snugly enough that Aziraphale would register it, warm, loving, protective.

"In his own words, he fucking hates me," Crowley mused, quiet, as if he hadn't noticed a change at all. "But he cares for you. Deeply enough that he put that aside, for a while." There was a pause, in which the demon debated whether or not to tell Aziraphale. He decided, in the end, that it might give him a laugh if nothing else. "He's at your shop right now. Sleeping - think Hell really took it out of him. Snores like nothing I've ever heard. I told him I'd be back to collect him," sort of. "Eventually. We'll need to."

He didn't think he needed to explain to Aziraphale exactly how much trouble Gabriel would be in, once Heaven knew. Once Michael knew.

Crowley bowed his head, nuzzling a kiss into the angel's hair. Inhaling similarly. Grounding.

"Come to bed with me," he murmured, eventually. "It's warm. Smells better."

If they hadn't before, many of the odd aesthetic choices Crowley made regarding the flat suddenly seemed to make more sense. The stark absence of clutter, the elegance of what clutter there was. The soft light and lush greenery, the obsessive cleanliness.

Even his room. His bed. The constantly-heated sheets that no normal person could sleep in without waking drenched in sweat, as if he were making up for years and years of cold.

"I'll light incense, if it'll help." He was still worried. Still afraid the stench of hell, of blood and sweat, of torment clung to him, even in its absence. "And I can make you dinner."

The Archangel Gabriel would have to wait. Crowley suspected he wouldn't be waking up for quite a long time, anyway.

Aziraphale listened to Crowley’s voice- though not necessarily his words- as if it were his favorite song. Truthfully, it was. He’d dreamt it for weeks when they were apart, getting blackout drunk, swearing he could hear it echoing through the bookshop. He daydreamed it for over six thousand years, never once forgetting it’s comforting sound. He’d hallucinated it, as he was wrenched deep in the darkest places of Hell- demons taunting and burning and fucking him- it was Crowley’s voice to bring him hope and faith, to help him stay in the light. 

Everything spoken of Gabriel passed him by. It wasn’t that he didn’t care- he just didn’t care right now. There was only one thing he could care about, after his ordeal, and that was simply Crowley’s love.

He followed Crowley into the bedroom, tucking himself into the warm bed with a pleasant sigh. It bloomed warmth inside of him, around him, attempted to chase away the chill of the underworld. It was relatively successful, for a time. 

He shook his head at his offer- no incense. He knew the demon would be uncomfortable. He just wanted to be happy. For them to be happy. Together. Comfortable and warm, and clinging to each other as if yesterday never happened and as if tomorrow was still very far away. 

“Dinner?” he repeated with a small smile, knocked out of his daze. He said nothing more. Although he lacked a usual smile, there was a hint of a familiar sparkle in his eyes.

Crowley'd led him there without once letting go. It'd be a wonder if he ever let the angel out of his vicinity again. Maybe one day, when things were quiet, were peaceful, he might consider it. But not yet.

"Dinner. Anything you'd like," as the demon settled into the warm bed beside him, he lifted his hand, carefully palming the lingering dampness from his angel's cheeks. He was watching him carefully, noted the distant glimmer in his eyes that immediately rendered any hardships Crowley had gone through completely irrelevant. So long as he could still grant him that reprieve, however slight, he had some purpose to cling to - and he did, mercilessly.

Even through the glasses, Crowley was trying hard not to focus too much on Aziraphale's eyes. He didn't want him to see, didn't want him to be reminded of the horrors below, of demons at all. If anything, his own irises had shrunk smaller in a concentrated effort for them to appear more _normal_ , hyper-aware of his own illusions. Gabriel's comments hadn't helped.

"You can even eat in bed." He didn't think he needed to emphasize what a travesty that was, in his world.

The angel coiled himself around the demon, thoroughly intertwined, such that Crowley wouldn’t be able to get out of bed if he tried. “But then you’ll leave,” he stated, a slight pout on his lips, an upward twitch of his brow. The gesture was seemingly mundane, but it indicated his rising spirits and comfort. It was _normal_ , even when it seemed nothing else would be- not ever again.

“I like you better than food”. He spoke it plainly, but the significance was there. “I’d rather us stay here, like this,” cooed the angel, nuzzling himself into the demon’s chest. He inhaled his scent, traced his hands over his shoulders, ran his fingers in Crowley’s hair. Aziraphale traced the outline of his jaw, and wanted to remember each and every detail, for all eternity. 

Hell had left him with a deeper appreciation for life in general, and it was his enjoyment he’d need to rediscover. _This_ \- this cuddle, the warmth, this _body_ \- he delighted in it very, very much. His placed his hands gently on the demon’s glasses, slowly nudging them down his nose, in an attempt to take them off.

"Well. There is a way we could have both, but I've been told it's not as satisfying as a meal that's actually been _prepared_ ," just the slightest hint of temptation. It felt a natural response to what was almost a _usual_ reaction from Aziraphale, and he wasn't willing to allow it to pass unindulged.

Aziraphale wound himself around him and the demon drew a long breath, exhaled it just as slowly, tension melting from his frame. He hadn't wanted to get up before, but it definitely wasn't going to happen now. His own hands didn't wander far - still cautious, still afraid. He didn't know that he could maintain himself if Aziraphale recoiled from his touch. It wouldn't be his fault, of course, but it was a reminder the demon didn't want to experience.

Still, his arms found their way around the angel, fingers tracing soft lines against his back, appreciating his presence, his warmth.

He'd thought he'd lost him. Again. Only one time before had he been certain that the angel was gone from him forever, but it hadn't mattered - not so much anyway, because everything was coming to an end. He would've too. Would've followed him into whatever awaited after Eternity and further.

This time had been different. Had been emptier. More difficult, because he'd known that Hell would never let it end. He would've persisted, never knowing whether his angel was safe, was whole, was happy - whether he was there in the pits alongside him.

It'd only taken hours to break him.

Crowley had survived the circles of Hell before Aziraphale. Hadn't broken, hadn't crumbled into nothing as some of the other Fallen.

This time, knowing what he'd lost, what he'd never have again, he'd felt himself come closer to them than he'd ever been. Enveloped in nothing short of murderous rage which he likely would've taken out on anyone, had he the chance.

It frightened him.

He felt Aziraphale tugging at his glasses and was too late to protest, torn from his troubled thoughts. He didn't want Aziraphale to see, was terrified that that other _being_ , soulless and cold still lurked behind his eyes - swallowed in the immediacy of the moment by his need to assure the angel's safety. He averted his gaze immediately, the warmer gold edges of the irises wavering slightly, like a lens desperately trying to focus. Trying to disappear.

"I can leave them on, it's alright."

“It’s _not_ the same,” he insisted, a half smile dancing on his lips. “Food is better when it is prepared. It tastes more delicious when it is loved first.” Of course, the angel liked the taste of love. It was, perhaps, his favorite part of eating food. He went out of his way to eat complicated dishes, labors of love, and was not often disappointed.

Aziraphale sighed, taking a deep, stabilizing breath as the demon ran his hands along his back. There was a scar there, still raw and burning, from where Lord Beelzebub had burnt him with Hellfire. He tried to push it out of mind, but he felt his muscles knotting in anticipation. He knew Crowley wouldn’t burn him, he knew that, but the reaction was reflexive and inevitable. He wondered if Crowley could feel the scar, angrily nestled between his shoulder blades, beneath the smooth cloth of his robes.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered softly, staring into his yellow serpentine eyes. “I’ve always loved your eyes. _Always._ For six thousand years I’ve loved them. You don’t have to hide them. They’re _beautiful._ ” They weren’t demon eyes. They held too much love. Too much hope.

Crowley could feel it, but he didn't comment. Instead he let his fingers rest gently over the spot, pouring forth energy he didn't have to expend, trying - perhaps in vain - to heal it. Lord Beelzebub's power was far greater than his own and it was unlikely he'd be able to do much, but he could soothe it, at least, and in time he'd ensure it was gone entirely, unwilling to let his angel live with the reminder.

He felt a brief pang of anger, that Gabriel hadn't healed Aziraphale fully before attending to him. But he forced it from his thoughts just as quickly.

"I thought they might-" he paused, trying to gather his thoughts. Clearly uncomfortable simply accepting the compliment, like he always was. He hated his eyes. _Hated_ them. They were the lone reminder he'd never been able to mask, never be able to fully hide. He'd learned over the years to make them look slightly more natural, but it had never been enough, never made them look anything closer to human. "- I don't want to look like one of _them,_ " he settled on, eventually. Uncomfortably. Because he was one of them. _Evil enough_ , he recalled the other asking him - that divide would always be there.

Still, his eyes met Aziraphale's. Apologetic. "I'll leave them off if you rather. But like I said, it's alright. Not like I don't forget I'm wearing them on a regular basis."

The stinging wound was a black hole, greedily consuming anything the demon would give it. It was Aziraphale’s first Hellfire burn, and it had been at the hands of the Prince herself. “It’s okay,” he sighed to his companion, wincing slightly. “I think it… it just needs time.” 

The angel stroked Crowley’s cheek, a gentle reminder of his affections. His pale blue eyes still lacked his usual sunshine, but they gazed upon the demon lovingly. He drew himself closer, kissing his lips gently, lingering for a moment before pulling away. His heart panged- he knew, on some level, he wanted more; but he wasn’t ready. He worried he’d never be.

“ _You’re not like them,_ ” Aziraphale argued, a brief wavering of fear passing through his gaze. He felt a surge of panic edge itself into his voice. “You’ll _never_ be like them,” his eyes were pleading, begging for Crowley’s reassurance. “Please. Y-you _can’t_ be…”

"I'll make sure it heals," Crowley assured him, once he'd given once he could. It had exhausted him thoroughly to try, with all he'd already done - but he was intent on not letting it show. His hand drifted higher, finding unmarred skin to rest upon, thumb working in soothing circles.

The kiss caught him by surprise - mostly because he'd assumed that Aziraphale wouldn't be ready for any sort of contact of that nature for some time. But he melted into it easily, allowing his angel control, resisting the urge to follow when he pulled away. Even the briefest contact felt rejuvenating, flowed into him as if Aziraphale were healing him anew. In a sense he was - bit by bit filling the cavernous hole in his spirit, replacing the wickedness wound so tightly around his heart.

"No," Crowley agreed immediately, the moment he heard the edge of panic in Aziraphale's voice. He lifted a hand to set against his cheek, holding his face steady as he gazed, steadfast into his eyes. It still pained him, still made him feel exposed. Like a liar. If he was like them, he'd lie for eternity. "Never." There was nothing but certainty in his gaze. Crowley allowed the gold hue to consume the whites of his eyes, no longer trying to hide them. Allowing Aziraphale to look for himself, to see the warmth, the fierce love that burned within them. "I'm not like them, angel. Never have been. Never will be. I'd never hurt you. You know I'd never hurt you."

Pink crept into Aziraphale’s cheeks as the demon’s gaze exposed him. Crowley’s hand was warm and tender against his noticeably thinner cheek. The angel felt so _vulnerable_. Not in a bad way- no panic, no danger. It was like the dark angel saw him- all of him- all of his essence. It was exciting, and he found himself catching his breath. 

Aziraphale’s blue eyes glittered with affectionate expectation. He slid his hand on top of Crowley’s, interlacing their fingers together, and he felt his pulse quicken. It was innocent, and it was perfect. The yellow eyes stared back at him, overcome with love and emotion. “I know,” he whispered breathily. He found himself drawn again, the demon’s love was magnetic, and he wanted more, wanted it all. 

Their lips met, and Aziraphale felt a warmth bloom across his chest. One kiss, turned into two, more. The passion burned inside of him, as if rekindling his spirit, his divinity. When the kisses turned into aching, Aziraphale broke their spell. It wasn’t time- not yet. He nuzzled against the demon, his face snug against his neck, and he was wrapped in Crowley’s arms. 

_I love you,_ he thought to himself, not daring to say it out loud. He didn’t deserve to say it, not after what he’d done. The hurt he’d caused. Maybe he’d be able to forgive himself someday, but it was a worry for another time. Feeling safe and beloved, and protected, relaxing for the first time since his ordeal, he drifted to sleep, enjoying the music of Crowley’s beating heart.

Crowley's eyes slid shut, gradually, as Aziraphale kissed him. It was divine - perfect, and he couldn't get enough. Not after thinking - not thinking, _knowing_ \- it'd been lost to him forever. That he'd been cast aside, out of the Heaven he'd finally managed to create for himself.

It'd been worse than the Fall, and Aziraphale's affection now was his redemption, the one shred of light he had in the world, guiding him back toward Absolution.

With enough time, he knew his own wounds would heal. The angel had a way of making it so, just by virtue of being in his presence. His hand, still set against the angel's cheek, continued to stroke it all the while - silently, with a gratitude he couldn't possibly begin to convey. He didn't know how, didn't know where to begin beyond where he already had, so long ago in the Garden. He could only try to show him, through the small acts of service, of affection, of kindness that never should've existed in his heart by very nature of what he was.

Aziraphale curled himself atop him and Crowley wrapped around him in turn. He wouldn't sleep. He wouldn't distance himself even that far from him, ever again. He didn't mean to wait until he was asleep, but he was sure he was by the time he spoke again, quiet, into his hair. "I love you, angel."

And he lay there, as if he might protect him even in wayward dreams.


	21. Revel in Heaven's Justice

Gabriel woke, disoriented, realizing that he was in Aziraphale’s bookshop. In Aziraphale’s _bed_. He sat up slowly, the room completely dark. His head was pounding. There was a weakness in his body that remained- likely from healing the demon. He needed to recharge, quickly, the only place to do so being the Silver City. 

He prepared himself with a brief prayer, using Aziraphale’s well worn bible to guide his meditations. When he felt strong enough, he found himself walking through the doors. The Silver City was marvelous- vast and white, and beautiful. Though it was also busy, overly managed, cold. He stepped into the lobby, intent on walking to his office.

Nine Angels awaited in the center of the vast, unusually empty space.

They were all aglow with holy power, all armed, all armored. They were not foot soldiers. They were a battalion, fearsome warriors that had fought in the first Rebellion, been hand selected and trained by Michael herself. As Cerberus might have guarded the underworld were it anything but fantasy, her platoon was the Hydra at Heaven's gate, had devoted an eternity to forging themselves into the Almighty's most powerful weapons, well-blooded and razor sharp.

The Archangel Michael stood at the center, radiant with light that outshone that of Heaven itself. It glinted off her platinum armor, her holy buckler, her sword. Her sword, which was drawn and ready, waiting, as if expecting at any moment a threat might materialize at the gates. The smooth blade glittered dangerously in light of its own making, ethereal, unwavering. It had cast down dozens of fallen, had outright slain hundreds more.

Beneath her intricate helm, the Archangel's eyes glowed, an icy and radiant blue that seemed to emanate from the shadow of the armor. Her mouth was visible, but there was no smile to be seen - she held the countenance of a warrior, prepared to strike down any foe that might cross her blade.

Her wings were spread, the span far larger than her diminutive form might suggest, poised and waiting, immaculately kept. Those of her soldiers were folded, bracketed by the length of her own splayed behind them.

Heaven was watching. It had been years, centuries, since Michael's force had been witnessed at arms. Even in the face of Armageddon they had not yet been summoned, not yet been prepared to march into battle, for they were reserved for war against the Betrayer himself. While most had vacated the space in anticipation, innumerable eyes watched from a distance, awaiting the spectacle. They were so very rare in Heaven, after all.

Whispers had begun to spread already. The betrayer, Gabriel. Healing a demon. Darting off to Hell to save one. And not just any demon. The demon who'd halted the Apocalypse, alongside his traitorous companion.

"Gabriel,"

Her voice seemed to resound through all of Heaven. Gentle, immeasurably kind in its timbre. It would be enough to bring any mortal to their knees in glorious ecstasy. It seemed a wonder it didn't pierce the universe from here. An evocation of God herself. Presently, it reverberated with a deep and honest sorrow.

"You must have known that your actions could not be forgiven."

Gabriel stood still, gazing at the soldiers gathered to greet him. He felt a coil of anxiety weaving itself through his essence. It wasn’t a surprise per se- he knew the moment would come- he just didn’t think it would come so soon. 

Michael seemed to have claws in every realm, privy to information the moment it was spoken. The Archangel regretted not waiting in the bookshop for the demon, not planning his moves more carefully. 

He stood tall, righteous. He was outmatched but armored himself all the same, holding his familiar sword and spear with poised Grace. “What is the meaning of this, Michael?” he spoke, Divine voice thrown into the Heavens to meet hers. Gabriel was the messenger of God. This was obviously a mistake. One he’d hoped for which Michael would pay.

Michael took a single step forward, and her soldiers parted in formation, creating a space through which she could maneuver without so much the slightest movement of her wings. The armor clanked softly, lightly as she strode toward Gabriel, came to stand before him, mere meters of space setting them apart.

"You have descended to Hell unbidden," Michael continued, voice unwavering, "released a prisoner of war," she took another step, setting herself into what could only be seen as an offensive position. Her blade hefted, held level behind her, drawn back with a grace that suggested it would take less than an instant to find its mark, "and betrayed the tenuous peace between Heaven and Hell in the process. Do you deny your crime?"

Gabriel raised his sword out to his side, the spear coiled in his hand to be thrown, preparing for a defense he knew all too well would end in his decimation. The violet light radiated from his tired, crystalline eyes. The Archangel’s holy energy simmered along his skin like minuscule bolts of electricity, buzzing angrily. 

“I’ve done no crimes against Heaven, _traitor,_ ” he began, his head held high. He towered with his mighty frame, but he knew the truth. Here, it would end. “The Principality Aziraphale was not to be sent to Hell, yet you meddled with the angel’s soul. You sent him to the pit to be defiled. You consorted with demons and the demon Prince. It is for this that you have forced my hand.”

"The balance between Heaven and Hell is not yours to maintain. It is by Her will I attempted to save the Principality Aziraphale's immortal soul - by Her will I sought to eliminate the threat presented by the demon Crawley."

The concern, so all-encompassing, began to drain from her voice.

"Heaven is not our Lord's only domain, for She rules over all things. It seems you have forgotten yourself, forgotten your place. For She hath refused mercy to the rebellious angels who would rise against Her, and thrust them into Hell," Michael's eyes flashed dangerously beneath her helm, a spark of blue barely visible amidst the glaring light.

When she spoke again, it was with a righteous fury, that which had not been heard since the Great War so long ago - which many thought they would never hear again.

"And so too shall I be Her hand in the face of unclean spirits. I condemn you, Archangel Gabriel, to be cast out of Heaven, which bears no place for those who would betray Her will. That you may find your place in the abyss, amidst Lucifer and his apostate host, who hath seduced you to such blindness."

Her sword erupted in flame, a roaring fire of blue so fine it burned almost white, audible more than it was visible. The flames licked gleaming metal as Michael swung the blade in impossibly wide arc. It sung violently in the air, reverberating in the open space, and there was barely another sound when it impacted Gabriel's armor, sliced through as if he wore none at all. Perhaps if he weren't so far weakened - perhaps if she weren't so well prepared. The blade arced across Gabriel's chest in a painful mix of impossible force and white hot fire; Gabriel would feel it begin to burn through him, consuming his holy light as kindling, bundled and quick to ignite.

The blade swung back again, just as quickly. Liquid gold sprayed onto the white floor beside them - remnants of the holy armor that melted instantaneously beneath her assault. 

Her soldiers stood ready behind her, but Michael knew it was done.

Her cold eyes, blue fire, met Gabriel's, and the Archangel Michael smiled.

"May our Lord have Mercy on your immortal soul."

She beat her wings in a single, powerful stroke, and drove her blade toward Gabriel's heart.

As the blade plunged into Gabriel’s chest, he loosed his spear- a feeble attempt, and an unnecessary one, he knew- and it connected with Michael’s wing. His sword carved upwards, slicing her breastplate; unlikely to be a damaging blow. 

The pain was immeasurable and he cried out in a Divine wail of agony. It seemed to reverberate the Silver City, as if afflicted by an earthquake. What Gabriel hadn’t realized is that each realm felt the quake. Earth shook and Hell beneath it, the universe screaming in unison with the Archangel’s torment.

Gabriel's blade cast white sparks against Michael's buckler, which lifted immediately to deflect it. It left an angry scar, nothing more. His spear, however, found its mark and crushed angrily through the immaculate white feathers, bone crunching into a mess of tangled ligament and skin. Michael did not cry out - barely reacted save for an abrupt flutter of her wings, as if she were trying to unseat a thorn that'd found its way beneath her skin.

It didn't prove effective, and gritting her teeth, she reached up to wrench the spear violently from her wing. The skin immediately began to stitch back together, the points of renewed feathers bursting forth and blooding straight away. Michael's sword, stained now with a sheen of glittering gold, vanished from her grasp as she turned to regard her soldiers, to regard her colleagues.

A stunned silence lingered. And then, the quake. Michael remained unflinching, though it sent an uncomfortable murmur through the room, a certain anguished surprise.

"You have nothing to fear," Michael stated, soothingly. Her voice ringing out, clear and kind amongst them. "For I shall protect Heaven from the Betrayer and his treacherous compatriots - as I always have - as _She_ bids me, eternal. Now - there is work to be done."

Bit by bit, the armor disappeared. She walked casually back toward her soldiers, who turned to face her as she moved past - followed wordlessly, unquestioningly in her wake.

Slowly but surely, the space began to fill - occupied by the usual bustle of Heavenly activity.

The unease lingered in the air.

White light, blinding and eternal, spilled from Gabriel's wounds. His body crashed through the floor of Heaven- falling now- and he saw Michael’s victorious, prideful smile vanish as the air around him grew cool.

Down he fell, faster, air whipping his skin and face, burning like Hellfire. His wounds poured light into the air, golden now, beaming outward as an exploding star. He saw the ground approaching and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was the end, and perhaps it was a better fate than that which was granted to the Fallen. 

When his body crashed into the hot, pearly halite, everything melted away. Gabriel was transported to another realm- pure and white, expansive and empty. There was no beginning or end. No cardinal directions, no 3D space, just a flat immensity. He was suspended against a stretch of blankness- nothing more than a white shadow. It was a blank canvas. It was everything, and it was nothing. 

His hands covered his chest but the wound had disappeared. The air became heavy upon his form, crushing him down into nothingness, and he felt his bones crunch and pop, breaking into himself, imploding, being sucked into the ivory portal. He screamed in agony, the excruciating pressure disintegrating him into oblivion.

Gabriel found himself lying in the hot sediment as the sun scorched him overhead. His wounds were gone. He wore an angel’s robe, pristine and flowing, his body seemingly complete. The Archangel’s energy had been replenished, restored to a state perhaps even better than before. He felt the power and vitality hum in his celestial form. His wings weren’t spread, but he knew they were there. Could feel them curled into his body, tucked away safely. 

Despite his confusion, he had faith: God was responsible. God saved him, healed him, pieced him together anew.

God had given Her blessing to take his Righteous vengeance, to uphold the laws of Heaven. He stood, overlooking the Dead Sea, the remnants of Sodom and Gomorrah, and prepared to purge Heaven of its sins.

* * *

The Prince of Hell strode slowly through the ever-changing landscape. They had expected the summons when it came, but perhaps not expected it so quickly. The walls of Hell truly did listen.

They were not nervous, were not afraid. They knew what they had done, and knew the offering - the exchange would please their Master that much more. The demon Crawley was no one. The Archangel Michael was something special.

For all the rage Hell harbored for the demon, for his companion, it wouldn't exist without the Archangel - the being who struck down Lucifer himself, condemned him to his fiery dominion along with so many of his followers. What better vengeance could exist than to drag her through the fires and tribulations through which they'd all lived for so, so long?

For a moment, Beelzebub hesitated before the large, rusted door before them. They adjusted their sash, their brooch, each lapel, carefully in turn. They recalled pure white feathers, singed to nothing in a flash of Hellfire. They recalled the twenty-four souls, permanently extinguished in Holy fury. In one last, fleeting wisp of doubt, they recalled the Archangel Michael's blatant lie.

The doors ground their way open, rumbling, ominous. The heat of the fires behind them sent a thick fog drifting into the icy plane. The Lord of Flies moved with it, expression ever unchanging, and the doors shut decisively in their wake.

* * *

Hastur held onto the lesser demon next to him, stabilizing himself at its expense. His black eyes scanned the chamber, ichor dripping thick and black as tar, shaken loose from the ceiling. His grime-caked visage was stern and cross. He yelled, voice gravelly and cutting, “What the hell is this??” Everything shook around them, hard enough to knock some of the demons off their feet. Though, not Duke Hastur, who selfishly used every available body to steady himself, screaming at them all to get back to work.

By the time Beelzebub emerged from the chamber - what felt like years later - they were looking particularly worse for the wear. A thin streak of blood, inky black, dripped from the corner of their mouth, another from their nose, an eye. They smeared them carelessly away with a shaking hand, and began the long ascent back to the upper floors.

Their usual halo of flies were conspicuously absent, an odd silence they weren't used to accompanying them amidst the agonized cries of lost souls. They'd learned to tune those out years ago, but it was harder without the thrum of insects to aid them.

The Prince of Hell had not expected its King to be quite so angry. _Trusting an Angel,_ the hideous growl echoed in their thoughts, _Betraying our Kingdom_ \- and it was always our Kingdom - _A soul as worthless as yours_... and so on, and so forth. It was nothing they hadn't heard. Nothing they hadn't experienced. Still, their Lord was merciful, and they had emerged alive again from the realm of Treachery, where he'd threatened time and again to bind them.

Thankfully, there was work to be done, and a sore lack of souls in Hell with the mental capacity to do it.

A blessing and a curse.

They had reached the topmost floor by the time the quake struck, and their eyes narrowed into dark slits as they held up a hand, using their own will to brace themself and those around them - lest they so much as stumble their way. Duke Hastur's half-panicked attempts at crowd control weren't half as effective, and they wondered briefly what madness they'd return to later on.

The quake conjured a familiar feeling, and it hung heavy in the air even once it had stopped.

The Lord of Hell waited for a long moment, thinking, feeling.

But no new soul came. Not the sort that brand of welcome warranted, anyway.

Their brow furrowed, and they strode off through the panicked, swarming crowd.

Not moments later, the scorched earth behind Gabriel began to rumble. It was a low sound, not so spectacular or wide-reaching as that which he'd caused himself, but palpable all the same.

The earth split, and from some plane deep within emerged Lord Beelzebub, squinting angrily in the blazing light. There were no flies - not even the crown. Their face was free of rot and grime, though they still appeared pallid, somewhat sickly. Habitually, they brushed the sand from their shoulders - one and then the other - and their glare sought out the Archangel.

"What," they demanded, and despite the presence of what appeared to be an _actual body_ , their voice retained the strange, low buzz - "in _Heaven_ have you done?

Gabriel looked down upon the Prince, as they stood in the shadow of his unseen wings. They were… cute. Almost. Short and thin- Too short, too thin. He quickly looked away, distracted himself with the view of the Dead Sea. His violet eyes burned fiercely with a newfound turbulence- the purple fire seething violently, unhindered.

Gabriel’s new body was revitalizing. All traces of fatigue, the exhaustion of general wear and tear- it was all gone. His face and soul were refreshed, and though no Divinity escaped him, it was an invisible aura around him. Humans would find it difficult to gaze at him, blinded by an unseen, ethereal energy.

His voice had a crisp, powerful pulse, still too Divine for mankind’s ears as the celestial energy melted into human form. “Michael killed me,” the Archangel mused. “And God granted me Her Forgiveness. A resurrection”. 

The sun shone against Gabriel’s skin, somehow tanned yet sparkling with a faint pale glow. His form dripped beauty, breathtaking and eternal, enough to crush a human heart into salt should he be viewed a moment too long. He seemed a deity in his own right, radiating sacred holiness as a beloved, well-worshipped temple.

His eyes met the Prince’s, and they smoldered with a sovereign intensity- a freedom and strength never before reflected in his striking visage. “We will purge Heaven.” he stated with a commanding air, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smile.


	22. The Absured Courts the Vulgar

The Prince had not expected to be met with the sight of Gabriel, in all of his Divine glory. Based on the tremor that had coursed through their own realm, the best they'd hoped for was to see him mush on a rock, or dripping down the side of a cliff face. The sight of the Archangel, backed by the Dead Sea, powerfully ethereal and bathed in Her light caused Beelzebub to step back.

They hadn't flinched away, not exactly.

But Lord Beelzebub was not wanting for a sense of self preservation, and their steel eyes glinted, narrowing as they took in the display, darting over Gabriel's form, impossibly beautiful in the glaring light they'd yet to adjust to on its own.

"How nice for you," they drawled, their scowl deepening impossibly. They still weren't entirely certain whether or not he was a threat to them at present, and their hand hung open at their side, prepared to summon a weapon if the need arised.

It didn't. Nor did Beelzebub crumble into salt. They did, however, appear to be immensely annoyed.

"I fail to see - " Beelzebub drawled - narrowed their eyes for a moment in pause, as if they were trying to recall just how speech worked on this plane. When they began again, the buzz wasn't entirely gone, but it was far less noticeable. " - I fail to see," they repeated, "how you're going to purge Heaven if she got you that easily." _You._ Not we.

Beelzebub stared at him thoughtfully for a moment, gaze piercing through him, unyielding.

"I don't think I've ever heard an _Angel_ say they're going to purge Heaven."

Gabriel gestured with an open hand, for the Prince to draw their gaze. “Sodom,” he whispered, trailing his hand into a wide arc. “Gomorrah”. Together they stood atop great piles of halite- salt of the Dead Sea, ashes of the dead cities. An unnerving silence settled, not just upon them, but upon the valley. Not a chirp or buzz; not a single sign of life.

“Heaven is not for angels to command. It follows the law of the Almighty.” he said, after a time. “Disobedience, doubt. It will be uprooted. _Again._ ” There was a growing tension in the air, electrical and irate, and it hummed around them both, crackled through them.

“Michael will face Judgment, by _your_ hand,” directed the Archangel, his voice eerily possessing an otherworldly growl. He looked at the Prince, and a shimmer of gold overtook the violet of his eyes. “ _God wills it so_ ”. There was a fleeting sensation of danger, a thirst for blood, as if a predator were lurking around them, stalking them. It passed, following the golden Divinity, and went as quickly as it’d come.

Their gaze did follow as he gestured, begrudgingly. They knew where they were. They'd been there in the souls of men, drawn the ire of God herself.

Beezlebub scowled, skin pickling uncomfortably as the charged atmosphere closed in around them, familiar, dangerous. Unknowingly, their eyes began to darken - an instinctive response in the face of such immense Holy power. They took another step backward. This body did not lend well to their abilities, barely stayed together at the seams for every moment it was occupied by the corruption of their soul.

The Prince, whose gaze was again steadfast on the Archangel's, went still as the flash of gold pierced their vision. It sparked a distant memory, a flash of white-hot pain along their spine, and then it was gone.

Their expression was unchanged.

"We struck a bargain. She _will_ face Judgment - when _you_ deliver her."

They'd both been struck down by Michael once. Beezlebub had not been granted the same forgiveness, and they had no intention of trying a second time.

"I've been sent to assure that you uphold your end of the bargain. My Master is informed," there was a pause, weighted. "I would rather face His wrath than be struck down again. You don't seem to be at risk."

They were no longer a child of God, no longer bore the privilege of her light. While they would abide whatever plan was laid before them, they would not die for it.

"All of Hell wishes to see Michael punished. I'll help you," grudgingly, "but no more than that." They straightened their jacket, the only hint of nervous energy. Beelzebub did not seem entirely appreciative of the new Plan.

Gabriel took a deep breath. Slowly some of the divinity was sinking into his Earthly body. The light illuminating from his tanned skin had lessened, and the air around him drained of holy energy. He was still a very beautiful man, but now it was closer to normal beauty. Human beauty.

He smiled at the Prince, ignoring any of the more biting comments. When he spoke, the angelic music had vanished from his voice, along with the fearsome power. He sounded like usual Gabriel- deep voice, flat affect, a hint of insincerity. “Help me? Oh- wonderful!” he clasped his hands together and, though he was earnestly grateful, it didn’t show. “I don’t know a thing about Earth.”

The shadow of his wings absorbed into the Earth, leaving nothing but scorching sunlight upon them. “I don’t suppose you’d know how to, well, be human like? I’d ask Crowley and Aziraphale, but…” he didn’t finish the thought. There was still an anger, and pity, when he considered the angel’s torture. The unholy couple needed time together, time to heal their wounds. Gabriel was determined to give it to them. 

“Maybe I can write them a- what’s it called- a letter? Do you know how to do that?” the Archangel looked at the Prince expectantly.

One of Beelzebub's eyes twitched, just slightly, as it began to fade back toward its normal hue.

The demon was far from beautiful. They were boyish, and small, and exuded an air of absolute irritation nearly all the time. They may have been fearsome, once - Gabriel had seen glimpses of it not long ago, but years of serving as what amounted to Hell's _general management_ had taken its toll on the once thoroughly fearsome being. Even without the veil of insects, Beelzebub appeared the type of person who went to every effort to make absolutely certain they were _left alone_.

"How do you know nothing of Earth?!" they demanded, quite visibly annoyed. "Aren't you supposed to keep tabs? Something?" They turned on their heel, away from the sun, and folded their arms - glaring off into the distance. "Of course I know how. I've been possessing them for ages. You've got to manage it for a while before they start spewing bile for full effect."

Truthfully, it had been quite a long time since Beelzebub possessed anyone. They'd been quite good at it in their time - Legion and all that - but they weren't exactly known for being _subtle_.

"We won't be dealing with the traitor," they spat, suddenly quite serious. "No letters! You --" there was an incredulous pause, and they looked over their shoulder at him. "You don't know how to write a _letter?_ "

He looked at the Prince with confusion. “Of course I know nothing of Earth. The Principality Aziraphale has been here for six thousand years. We checked up on him often- at first- but his memos became so detailed we just,” he shrugged, “We figured he was doing fine!” 

He shook his head, as if to end that piece of the conversation. It wasn’t relevant, not anymore. 

“I need to contact Aziraphale and the demon Crowley. But,” he turned, eyeing the Prince with a look of disgust, “They’ll need time after what you’ve done to them. Aren’t letters slow communication? I’ve never written one”. He chuckled, gesturing his hands on either side of himself. “Obviously.” He conveniently avoided the fact that he’d been using transcription software for the better part of millennium.

Beelzebub was silent for a while, having closed their eyes as Gabriel went on. It sounded vaguely familiar - albeit the situation with Crowley had been slightly different. His memos had started out extraordinarily long, overly-detailed, and full of mumbo-jumbo that no-one in Hell could possibly understand. Over the years they'd gotten shorter, and shorter, to the point where many of them consisted of no more than two words ( _Learn, guys_ ).

They'd figured he was doing fine.

"Crawley," Beelzebub corrected, facing forward again. "What _Hell_ did to them. And fairly," Gabriel's persistent defense of the two only fueled their annoyance. "We stopped using letters centuries ago. Regardless, I won't help you contact those vermin. I want nothing to do with them."

They'd taken too much, between them. As far as Lord Beelzebub was concerned, they both still belonged in the pits.

"London," they stated, out of nowhere, and turned to face Gabriel again. "You'll need somewhere to stay until they cast you out for good."

“I _will_ be contacting them, Beelzebub. We’re… _friendly_ ”. The Archangel made a brief look of confusion, as if debating with himself the truth of that statement. “Besides. _We’ll_ need their help in the coming days.”

Gabriel grabbed the Prince’s hand. It was tiny, compared to his own hand. “Shall we?” he inquired, rhetorically, and miracled them into London proper. He didn’t know very much about the city- or any city, for that matter- and they found themselves in a very posh neighborhood. 

He glanced at the Prince. “Right. So.” His head bobbed, as if there was something very amusing going on. He still gripped their hand absentmindedly. “How does this work, then?”

Beelzebub did flinch at the contact, and they were halfway through the motion of yanking their own hand away when the Archangel transported them both.

By the time they landed - them rather gracelessly, staggering forward a half-step, they ended up gripping back harder. It was only a half-second, enough to keep themself from staggering fully, and then they wrenched their hand away with a glare, proceeding to wipe it on the thigh of their pants as if it'd been thoroughly defiled.

"You're _friendly_. _You_ can contact them. I don't care what you do, as long as Michael's soul winds up where it needs to," the odd vibration was back in their voice. They cleared their throat upon realizing, and it diminished.

They didn't know their way around London. The last time they'd been - _really_ been - things were vastly different. There were more cars now, for one. And more people, milling about - a few of them catching their eye and looking away quickly as they strode past. They quickly averted their gaze, and began to walk.

"That depends entirely on how long it will take."

Beelzebub knew the _general_ idea of lodging. They knew the difference between a hotel and a home. They weren't quite sure about apartments, but they'd seen Crawley's once, against their better judgment. Tasteless.

“How can I get a place like Crowley’s?” he asked, obviously interested in the demon’s sense of décor. He followed their small frame, his long legs overtaking their steps far too easily. Gabriel slowed his pace- excruciatingly so- to keep in line with the Prince. 

“I don’t think I will be in Heaven for a while. I should have somewhere permanent. And I need a phone, too. Where do I get those?”

"Are you an Angel or not?!" Beelzebub demanded, impatiently. It was like dealing with a small child. They _hated_ children.

"You can miracle it into existence. All of it. And I know your lot use phones," and as if to demonstrate, they pulled their own from a pocket it hadn't previously occupied, holding it up so that he could see. Granted, Beelzebub rarely used it. They preferred to communicate ominously via other electronics - it had always seemed so much more _straightforward_. The mobile; they mainly kept it to keep tabs on Crawley - and, occasionally, contact with Heaven. How did Gabriel think they orchestrated anything?

Realization struck them, and they halted mid-step. "You do know how to use a phone." It wasn't even a question. "You _do_ realize you're not the first Angel to strike a bargain with us?" For the first time, the slightest hint of a smile was curling at the corner of their mouth. "Why do you think I have this?"

He tilted his head in realization. He supposed he _could_ miracle everything. It seemed so simple. Why hadn’t he thought of it already?

Gabriel avoided the small demon’s gaze uncomfortably. His brows knitted together. “I don’t have a phone,” he admitted. “I’ve never used one.”

He made it a point to stare at his feet, as if they were suddenly _very_ interesting. “Michael gave you Aziraphale. And got the Hellfire.” He said no more… mostly because that’s all he knew of it.

Beelzebub watched him wordlessly for a moment, as he stared down at his feet. The all-powerful, Archangel Fucking Gabriel, and he didn't know how to use a phone. Didn't know that his _employees_ used theirs to contact _Hell_ , of all places.

"How do you get through to anyone? Do your job?" For once, it wasn't scathing. They did sound earnestly aghast, however - as much as Beelzebub ever did in their monotonous drawl. Neglecting to make a show of putting their own away, the Prince's mobile vanished from their hand, and another appeared. Sleek. Grey. Normal.

It had no bells or whistles, because they didn't know what bells or whistles were. But it could make calls - and interplanar calls. They thrust it toward him. "Come up with your own number. I'll show you how to use it. Later," for now, their eyes were lazily scanning the buildings around them. Looking for vacancies. They supposed they could just _create_ one, but something told them Gabriel might not allow it.

They walked again for a time, in silence. Navigating this was going to be more difficult than they expected. They had half a mind to contact Crowley and fuck off until it'd been done; just as well they got a vacation before submitting themself for eternal punishment. Michael, they thought, wasn't going anywhere.

"There." They stopped abruptly, before one of the luxury buildings, and pointed toward the door, where a neat placard indicated the number to call to inquire about renting. They didn't call. Instead, they strode for the front door.

Gabriel looked like a scolded child; lips arced in a slight pout and a guilty expression gleamed in his eyes. “I meet in person,” he stated, in a somewhat hollow voice. 

When he pocketed the phone, there was a slight smile in his eyes- the only evidence of his pleasure. He would never admit it, but the Prince’s kindness was delightful. He followed them wordlessly into the building, trying to dampen the happiness welling in his heart.

"It's starting to make sense," they commented plainly. The door unlocked for them, despite the complicated buzzer that kept it locked, and Beelzebub meandered inside. The entryway was large, featured a lot of marble, and a lot of well-kept plants. The building itself was spacious enough - they assumed it'd suit the other's taste. It didn't matter to Beelzebub in the slightest whether it did; they just wanted things done quickly, already tired of sorting things for him.

They could feel everyone in the building. Everyone going about their day, but there was, indeed, one flat that was empty. Had been for some time.

The door unlocked for them when they reached it, and they pushed their way inside, moving into the obnoxious apartment. It was spacious. Bright - enough so they nearly had to squint, and automatically, the harsh lights dimmed.

"It's worse than Crawley's," they announced flatly, as if that were a selling point, and hoped he wouldn't be more particular than demanding gaudy and bright.

Gabriel gasped when they entered the apartment. He walked through, trailing his fingers along the cold statues, and admired the paintings and comfort. He particularly enjoyed the purple curtains. In his excitement- and child like wonder- he tested out all of the chairs and beds in succession.

“Beelzebub,” he spoke, voice surprisingly gentle. “It is beautiful here. Thank you.” It was the most genuine sound to utter from the Archangel’s lips, and for once, his violet eyes glittered with innocent delight.

By the time Gabriel had finished exploring every nook of the apartment, the Prince had migrated to stand before a large tapestry in what was, presumably, the dining area, fingers resting on the table before them as they gazed at the lush greenery it depicted. Their features were still set into a scowl, but it wasn't quite so harsh.

Hearing their name, it hardened again. 

No longer within earshot of mortals, they made no attempt to mask their voice.

" _Lord_ Beelzebub," they corrected, coldly. "Do not forget yourself."

Beelzebub strode past him then, as if he weren't even present. They made a point of investigating which, of two bathrooms, had the larger shower - and proceeded to lock themself inside.

“Lord Beelzebub” he mocked, bobbling his head side to side, when the Prince shut themself in the bathroom. He waited outside of it for a while, like a puppy waiting for its owner. When they didn’t appear, he tried to busy himself. He pulled out the phone and chose a number, but didn’t accomplish much more than that. The phone was confusing and he was afraid of breaking it by accident. He slipped it into his pocket to deal with later.

After pacing the apartment a few times, and generally appreciating the space, he slumped onto the couch, facing the purple curtains happily. There was weariness in him, perhaps the stress of the situation, and before long, he found himself drifting off to sleep. He began to snore.

Beelzebub removed their clothing, piece by piece, without the aid of miracles. It was a slow process, each item neatly folded and set into a pile, almost ritualistic. The shower turned on of its own accord, with a scalding heat that immediately began to fill the room with steam.

They stepped beneath the spray, ignoring the pain as the impossibly hot water cascaded over pale skin - pale skin that was marked by a number of risen scars, of dark bruises, of newer welts, some of which wept black beneath the blistering spray.

They looked rather like they'd been in a car wreck. One they hadn't survived, and yet there they were.

With eyes closed, the Prince lowered themself to sit, cross-legged beneath the running water. They stayed until it ran cold, and willed it hot again. And again.

Their thoughts drifted to Michael. To the impossible task before Gabriel - more realistically, the impossible task before them. Failure was almost inevitable, they decided, as they ran their fingers thoughtlessly over one of the scars. It was healing - not as quickly as they'd prefer, but enough that the pain wasn't so terrible as it had been when they'd been dismissed from their punishment. A few days more, perhaps.

It really hadn't been so bad. The news of Michael, of the Archangel Gabriel's supposed willingness to help had softened the blow enough. Perhaps He thought they'd have his soul, too. They knew already they wouldn't. They'd witnessed the Almighty speak through him - or something close to it. He'd been spared once already; his soul was not in question.

They wondered if their Master knew. Perhaps He knew that they would fail, and it was their punishment to try. It was His style, after all. Failure was always a lesson, to be punished with another.

Time passed slowly in Hell. It didn't feel like it'd been as long, but they didn't emerge until hours later, the dense steam dissipating into the cool air of the apartment. Gabriel was asleep. Snoring. They were tempted to kick him awake, to berate him for it - but the snoring was better than dealing with him conscious. They watched him for a long while, debating. Then they turned to ascend the steps, seeking out the largest bed.

It was huge. Comically large, compared to their small form atop it. They occupied the center, burrowed deeply beneath the blankets. Despite the light that should've shone from the windows, the room shrouded itself in darkness, black as pitch, and for the first time in millennia, the Prince of Hell slept.


	23. All Covered with Sleep

Crowley’s flat rumbled. Aziraphale’s books tumbled off of the top shelf with a loud crash. Dishes rattled in the cupboards, food tumbled out of the fridge. The Earth beneath their feet trembled angrily, shaking knickknacks off of shelves and dressers. 

The angel thrashed awake, clinging onto his lover fearfully, tears already stinging his eyes. He didn’t want to go back to Hell. He didn’t want this to be another illusion. He cowered, muscles tensing, and prepared for another torment, another white hot flash of pain, another defilement. 

He shook his head in protest, practically clawing into the demon’s skin, holding on as if he’d never get another chance to see him again. “No, no, no..” he groaned, “This is real, this has to be real, I can’t go back”. Sobs erupted from his throat, his heart broken and filled with anguish “I can’t go back, Crowley, I can’t go back”.

Crowley had never fallen asleep, and his reaction at the first signs of the quake were immediate. In any other circumstance he would've worried about the apartment - about preserving the items within, but now he only cared about the angel in his arms. He didn't protest the violent hold, didn't protest Aziraphale practically clawing at him. Instead he simply tightened his own grip, gold eyes glinting in the darkness with a sense of horrified familiarity. He didn't have the time to abide it, didn't have the time to panic, because his own was inconsequential.

"It's not you, Aziraphale," he murmured, over and over, nestling close to his ear so he could do so quietly, familiarly. "This is real. I'm real. It isn't you. It's someone else." _Gabriel_ , he thought immediately, exasperated. _I told you to fucking wait._

"You're never going back. I promise you, angel. You'll never see that place again."

But Crowley knew, somewhere deep in his mind that was _already_ afraid, he couldn't leave Gabriel to suffer. Not after he'd dragged him out. Not _because_ he dragged him out.

He couldn't stand another weight of such magnitude on his soul.

Aziraphale was immobilized, heart bathed in dread and woe. The angel didn’t break his grip as he held onto Crowley in desperate fear, and his nails dug into the demon’s skin. He wasn’t aware of the blood beading around his fingers- the shock paralyzed his senses, the world a tumultuous blur closing in around him. 

His sobs welled up inside of him- emanating from the deep despair within his soul. His body heaved with each outburst, every wail containing a different torturous memory. The tears cascaded down his cheeks and neck, Crowley’s shirt absorbing them.

Crowley didn't mind the pain. Didn't even register it, really - he'd been through far worse time and again. But nothing pained him as did his angel's woeful cries, as hearing the utter despair and hopelessness in his voice.

The demon held him for a long while, trying to soothe him. Trying to draw him back into the moment, pull him from the darkness that encompassed his mind. He realized, within minutes, he was incapable.

Heart heavy in his chest, Crowley turned his head and nestled his lips to Aziraphale's ear. There was a soft breath, an apology - for what he hadn't done, for what he was about to do. The demon snapped his fingers, somewhere behind the other's head, and sent him to sleep.

"Go and visit the Garden, angel," he murmured against his ear, though it wasn't a suggestion - it was a command, one Aziraphale would have no choice but to follow. He couldn't undo what had happened - but he could let him forget, at least for a while. He knew the other might be angry with him, whenever he next woke. But Crowley would remain there as long as he could, whispering quiet suggestions, evoking happier memories, a lifetime in which his suffering didn't exist.

* * *

Aziraphale stood at the edge of the Garden. Crawley passed him another stone, and the Guardian lodged it into the crumbling wall. The sand was damp beneath their bare feet. Cold, for the first time since Creation. 

The demon’s eyes shone bright, amused, somehow curious about the angelic creature, examining him (to the angel’s discomfort) with great interest. Crawley was likely to notice the silvery blonde locks, the brow with damp sweat- hardworking, determined- and the blue ocean of eyes in which a rather significant number of anxieties swam. 

Aziraphale noticed the demon’s dark delight at the angel’s words of frustration, the enjoyment he took in handing off stones and grazing the angel’s fingers with his own enigmatically, the long flowing hair that rustled beautifully in the breeze.

With a loud thud, the last stone had been set. “Well.” The angel began, dabbing sweat off his brown daintily, “I suppose this is it. Don’t suppose will be seeing anymore of each other…?”

The Serpent's yellow eyes flicked Heavenward for a moment, taking in the new sight of the grey sky above them. "Suppose not. You're meant to smite me, aren't you?" They met Aziraphale's again, curious. Tempting. The first of six thousand years' worth of tests.

“Smite you?” he chuckled nervously- uncomfortably- as if he was, for the first time, aware he had such power. Of course, he knew he ought to. He was _the_ _Guardian_. Aziraphale was contractually obligated to smite every demon on the spot. Then again, he was also obligated to keep the sword… the one he _gave away_. 

“No, no. I-I could never do that.” He looked Crawley in the eyes, and their blue was even brighter in this new, darkened world. “You’re not _evil_ ” he chimed, wiggling slightly where he stood. “You, well… you’re a _demon_ … uh. So I do suppose you’re _bad_. But- but you’re not _evil._ ” 

* * *

Nearly a century had passed before he saw the demon again. It was 3918 B.C. Aziraphale was nestled in an eatery, tucked somewhere in the corner of Uruk, Sumer. It was an obscure place- very posh and devoid of his accidental cult followers- and gave him a place to rest. Aziraphale hadn’t meant to create a _cult_ , but his stories of supernatural all-powerful beings had become embarrassingly popular. At least, he prayed, he’d be able to stop the animal sacrifices.

While not successful on the religious front, he was rather proud of the new reed pens humans had created to expand on a system of writing. He couldn’t take _all_ the credit, naturally- humans were so wonderfully inventive- but he did have a hand in its inspiration. 

His food was served on a new type of artful pottery- which he absolutely adored- so much so that he had already replaced the old-fashioned dishes in his home. He was just finishing the bit of food covering a cute animal inscription tucked on the corner of his dish (he always looked forward to uncovering them all- they were ever so adorable) when he heard the demon’s voice. 

“There was a free table, I know there was,” insisted the demon. “Check again”. Aziraphale winced at the words- so _that’s_ why there was already a free spot. 

“Crawley?” he chimed, “Is that you?” He knew it was. “I- well, I’m at a table for two if... if you’d like to join me?” He watched as the demon _sauntered_ over- no other word to describe his swaying walk, really- but it did remind the angel of a snake.

The demon was friendly- overly so from the angel’s perspective- but it was still nice to see a familiar face. Aziraphale enjoyed the conversation. The demon had also inspired many things- including the dishes he’d coveted so earnestly- and the angel delighted in this discovery. Likewise, and much to Aziraphale’s dismay, Crawley was very impressed with the accidental cult work. 

Crawley hadn't come to eat. He'd yet to fully grasp the appeal of food, why people seemed to enjoy it as a _communal activity_ , but it was a good way to determine how best to mesh in an entirely new locale.

It'd been a surprise to see Aziraphale, and equally surprising, it turned out to be a _pleasant_ one. He'd spent most of the last years weaving intricate stories of deities that were most certainly not the Almighty, and he was animated in telling the Angel all about them - some of them, perhaps not so coincidentally, were strangely supportive of certain cult-related activities. Animal sacrifices had often been encouraged - or at least he said so, to watch the Angel squirm.

He was overly proud of his work regarding certain monuments, and their not-so-subtle alignments with the stars; Pride was the easiest sin to encourage, by far. Humans, he'd learned, were overly vain. But stuff a monument with all sorts of gold and luxurious nonsense, and you'd got Greed and Envy - three with one stone! And a whole lot of bricks.

"So," Crawley'd observed, gesturing over the table, "they've started giving Gluttony a free pass?"

Aziraphale looked down at the plates of food with an irritated pout. “Yes- well, I think… I think they’ve rather forgotten about me, all alone down here”. His words contained a twinge of sadness, or perhaps more appropriately, loneliness. As much as Aziraphale tried to do _good_ , humans were surprisingly resistant to it. Much of his efforts had been wasted, and with little to show. He was depressed at the thought.

“Anyways, Crawley. Lovely to see you. Glad you’re doing well. Best I go.” He excused himself, the conversation feeling soured, and left the demon staring as he hurriedly shoved pieces of silver into the servant’s hands. He slipped out of the eatery and headed home, taking the more deserted roads if he could manage to do so.

The angel spent more time avoiding humanity itself than anything else. He seemed to have a knack for royally screwing things up. No matter how the angel tried to help, it always seemed that he’d help the wrong person- who’d go and make a mess of things- or he’d help in the wrong way (which ended in strange events like cults and animal sacrifices). Nowadays, when he sought out humans, it was mainly to enjoy the world they were creating.

Aziraphale _did_ perform miracles from time to time- usually minor ones- healings and finding lost children, stopping the rain, avoiding conflicts, getting the best sales- that sort of thing. He inspired humans in their pursuit of knowledge and kindled all manners of creativity. He liked the Earth, and humanity as a whole. He just didn’t care for mankind as individuals. The poor angel was taken advantage of numerous times and it rather seemed that his kindness was a weakness. Though, in all fairness, it was a weakness in Heaven, too. 

"Oh, they haven't forgotten about you. And who cares if they have, anyway? It's better company down here," it was unclear whether Crawley was referring to himself or the humans.

"Race you to the next false idol!" he'd called after him as he went. Evil incarnate, teasing him for his misfortune.

Aziraphale's bag would feel a bit heavier by the time he got where he was going. Inside, a small dish, marked by a (miraculously well carved) serpent.

* * *

Petronius himself escorted them to a table. “Mine lovely _friend_ Aziraphale,” he cooed, taking a moment to bring the angel’s hand to his lips, which solicited a slight blush. “It is an honor to have you. I will bring you and your _acquaintance_ nothing but the best”. He gazed at the angel in adoration, hardly paying any mind to the demon.

“Ah! I’d nearly forgotten!” Petronius exclaimed, handing a book over to the angel with a bow. “The first copy, as requested; and of course, signed with my love. You’ll have to visit soon, _dear friend_ , and discuss the writing over a hearty evening of wine.” He smirked, meeting eyes with Crowley for perhaps the first time. 

Aziraphale gave his delightful thanks, blue eyes glittering with unfettered joy, and he secured Petronius’ book, _Satyricon_ , in his satchel. The tall, well-dressed man sauntered off- a runway walk to even rival Crowley’s- and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I can’t believe you’ve _never_ had an oyster,” teased the angel as they sat down, entirely ignoring (either out of embarrassment or cluelessness) the introduction.

Crowley's gaze was decidedly icy when it met Petronius's, and he offered a smile that was more of a sneer.

He'd been in a rotten mood. It showed in his features, his posture. Even his normally harmless quips were rather more sharp.

"When do you even find the time to read?" ignoring the other's teasing; food still hadn't grown on him. Wine, however, had started to, and he'd already had quite a lot. "I should probably start. Get into something, y'know. This lot," he gestured vaguely, "This... humans. They don't even need me to tempt them into it. What's the point?"

“Find time?” Aziraphale asked incredulously. “We’re _immortal_. We have all the time in the world.” He refilled the demon’s glass observantly. 

With a sigh, he nodded his head in agreement. “I do say, humans seem resistant to our influences, don’t they? I hardly spend time on it anymore.” He shrugged, as if he hadn’t admitted damning information about himself. “A bit of a miracle here, some healing there… Heaven seems satisfied enough. You know,” he added with a puzzled look, leaning forward slightly as if he'd been gnawing on some juicy gossip, “I get the feeling they don’t even read my memos.” 

He looked upon the demon sweetly. Crowley seemed unusually agitated, and Aziraphale felt compelled to help. They’d been on Earth together for so long now. It sure was lonely as it is- would be even lonelier if the demon went home. 

“I’ve plenty of books at home,” he proposed. “Perhaps, after we eat, we can go take a look? I’m sure to have something you’d like.” He smiled. His face was soft, kind. Genuine. “I’ve got a _lovely_ wine cellar.” He added, to sweeten the offer.

"Oh, I know they gave up on mine. Used to get loads of feedback... assignments. Deadlines!"

He drank. Heavily.

"Well, if they're not paying attention Upstairs... not paying attention Downstairs. I've got the night free, anyway." At least he did now. The party had been a complete bust; there wasn't anything he could to to make it worse than it already was.

"Y'know," Crowley leaned an elbow on the table, easing closer to the Angel as he spoke, "If you're looking for a big win, there's someone in need of a bit of _Divine Intervention_."

The angel pursed his lips together, eyeing the demon suspiciously. “What sort of Divine Intervention?” 

Petronius appeared with platters of delicacies, making it a point to slide one where Crowley had been edging closer to the angel. He described the dishes- mostly to Aziraphale, who seemed overly interested- and placed a rather expensive looking bottle of wine between them. 

The angel was reading the label on the wine bottle, when Petronius cupped his chin, lifting it to meet his gaze. “I hope you enjoy the fruit of my labors.” he purred, gesturing at the table. Aziraphale looked away with a light blush. 

Petronius gently let go of the angel, turning to smugly nod at the demon, and once again sauntered off into the kitchen. Aziraphale poured the first glass of expensive wine and handed it to Crowley, scooting forward to hear more about the intervention.

“So,” he pushed, “about the intervention”. It had his full attention- almost like Petronius didn’t exist at all.

The demon's brows lofted conspiratorially, and he inched closer still, lowering his voice. "Well, there's this absolute swine of a--"

Crowley was cut off by the impromptu arrival, settling back into his former position to finish off his current glass of wine. Immediately his eyes went to the new bottle - narrowed gradually as he watched Petronius cup the Angel's chin.

"Well," he started again, slowly, mulling the words - he was watching the human go. "Well," he repeated. "Now that I think of it, might be better I do it myself - probably earn - who knows. Earn a medal or something," he lofted his glass for a moment - proceeded to drain it in one go.

"Actually, I think - you shouldn't worry about it, more of a _Demonic_ issue anyway. Wouldn't want you getting up to trouble. But I really ought to strike while the iron's hot," Crowley slapped the table's edge and stood. " _The books_ \- you'll show me next time, right?"

“Oh..” The angel’s voice was with thick with disappointment. “Y-you’re not staying? What about the oysters? The wine?” The angel tried to hide the sadness spreading throughout his features. It was somewhat successful, but he could do nothing of the hurt in his eyes.

_Meanwhile, the kitchen door was slightly ajar. Two narrowed eyes watched, praying it was a fight between the two men. “Cicero”, he whispered gleefully to the chef. “Prepare fruit with honey- yes, it is, and make sure to add extra berries this time… And prepare a glass of warmed honeyed milk, too.” A lover’s quarrel, he hoped, as he fantasized about comforting the sweet Aziraphale._

Crowley'd been half a second from turning to leave - but Aziraphale's voice caught him. He hesitated, the hand that'd slammed the table lingering there - then a grimace overcame his features, as if he was overcoming a need to attend to some _very important business_ somewhere -

"Oh, in Hell's name - right. Right, you're - I can do it later," he dropped heavily back into his seat. As he did, the kitchen door slammed rather loudly shut.

"How'm I supposed to eat them?"

The angel wiggled happily, pouring them some more wine. He demonstrated how to eat an oyster for the demon, innocently. “First you cut it here...” he said, as he cut along the muscle, making sure Crowley had a good view of the process. 

_The kitchen door popped open slightly, an exasperated sigh as Petronius saw the other man was still with the lovely Aziraphale._

Aziraphale held the demon’s gaze. “Then, you just…” The angel tipped the shell to his lips, gently sucking the oyster meat into his mouth. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste with a soft ‘mm’. 

_There was a sharp inhale as the man covertly watched Aziraphale consume the oyster. Aphrodisiac indeed…_

He reopened his blue glittering eyes and smiled at the demon, as if the previous gesture was entirely innocent, and nothing whatsoever could be inferred from it. He held an oyster out to Crowley happily. “Ready to give it a go?” 

Crowley was still more than content to sit sipping his wine. He felt better now that there wasn't some human milling about, distracting them from business. Couldn't even get a word in edgewise with him around.

The demon watched the process unfold, his cup lingering an inch from his mouth, as if he'd momentarily forgotten he was meant to be drinking from it. Eventually, he set it back down on the table.

He could feel eyes on them again.

Without a word, the demon took the oyster from Aziraphale. He cut it, where the other'd shown him, and despite thinking that it looked like the most unappetizing thing in the world, he canted his head back to taste it. As he did, one golden yellow eye revealed itself as both darted toward the open door, glinting unnaturally in the soft light of the room. He made a point of displaying - for half a second, from an angle Aziraphale couldn't witness behind the curve of his hand - a distinctly inhuman forked tongue, a flash of slightly sharper teeth.

Maybe it was all a trick of the light.

Hard to tell at that distance.

Crowley lowered the shell to the table. He considered the taste in his mouth. And he winced.

"Oh - _oh,_ that's - no. No - those? All for you. I'll stick," he lofted his glass, "with wine."

Aziraphale laughed musically at the demon’s reaction to the taste. His cheeks had a slight wine-related flush to them, which contrasted beautifully with the silvery blonde of his locks. He looked more youthful and happier with the color painted on his face. 

_The kitchen door closed with a bang. Petronius slumped against it, and his hand clutched his chest. He panted, trying to come up with a way to part the two. His sweet Aziraphale was with a demon!_

“Salutaria!” he lofted his wine glass happily, thoroughly enjoying the demon’s company, taking a generous sip. “Although you don’t like the food, I’m glad you were able to stay.” The compliment was genuine, and his eyes glittered with gratitude and joy. 

He tipped an oyster to his lips, consuming it the same way as before. ‘mm’. It seemed more graceful than the first time- and more enjoyable. The flush on his cheeks made the act seem less innocuous, though it was all the same to Aziraphale.

Crowley huffed a laugh through his nose. It might've seemed as if it were at his own expense - really, it was at the sound of the slamming door.

"I haven't --" he raised his own glass, belatedly. "I haven't liked any food yet, 'salright. I'll drink, you eat, we both get to enjoy ourselves -- _speaking_ ," he set his wine down a bit too loudly, and paused as he watched the Angel, forgetting himself.

"--speaking of enjoying. Divine Intervention. I almost forgot. But I shouldn't tell you about it here. When you're done and we go-- wait. You've got a _place?_ How long've you been here?"

“Really is quite a shame,” he stated, “Humans come up with all sorts of delicious things.” There was something about the angel’s movements and words that seemed inherently erotic. As if he were springing a trap, enticing those nearby with promises of honey. It was difficult to pinpoint- the angel wasn’t overly graceful or overly handsome. However, the undivided attention he so readily gave, and the pure delight he exuded, had a way of clouding even the coldest of minds. Another oyster, another soft utterance of pleasure.

The angel found himself leaning in towards the demon, intrigued by his interesting, yet vague, proposition. “Yes- I’ve been here… well, quite a while now. Do you want to leave? Talk about this ‘Divine Intervention’ some more?” He took another sip from his glass, not taking his eyes off of Crowley. His eyes were bright and devoted- eagerly giving the demon all of their attention. “I have wine at home,” he quickly added, as if the demon would need convincing.

"Delicious. Terrible. Bit of everything in between," Crowley shrugged, his eyes set on Aziraphale all the while. He'd never been the type to be easily lured into such traps - perhaps the notion that this one was unintentional made it all the better. There was no chance the angel was aware of it.

"Mhm - the cellar, you told me. I want to see it," raid it, was the more appropriate truth. "And I'll tell you all - maybe not all - but I'll tell you about it. Think there's a way it can work in both of our favor."

He could already take credit for the things he'd witnessed - that was no question. Hell hadn't even come up with that level of depravity yet. Heaven would be pleased with Aziraphale for stopping them - wouldn't they?

“Well,” he began, draining his glass and setting it daintily on the table, “I suppose we ought to get going then.” The angel smiled sweetly, nodding his head encouragingly. He made no mention of the bill, or Petronius, suspiciously. 

_Petronius paced the kitchen, a cold sweat beaded around his brow, and his hands trembled weakly. Perhaps he would follow them…_

Aziraphale led the demon out of the restaurant and to his home, chattering about this and that along the way. Nothing of import, mostly town gossip, subjects the demon was likely to lack interest in. His house was nestled in a seedier district of town, but then again- the angel had a penchant for seedy. Whether or not it was intentional was a different matter entirely. 

The angel’s house was not quite what one would expect. It lacked the vast emptiness and beauty of Heaven. Surprisingly homely- and distinctly not made of marble or other fine material- it looked very much like a wealthier version of a common home. It was large, and gated, like would be expected of someone with expensive tastes, but it was also made of normal brick and was unpainted.

Inside, it was cluttered with many statues and books- lots and lots of books- plus a few scrolls and parchments written to him by other, more graceful men. A suspicious number of them began with something along the lines of ‘To my dearest Aziraphale…’ and ended with ‘Forever yours’. There were piles scattered about, an organized chaos, and a suspicious number of feather stuffed pillows and thick, soft blankets seemed available in all rooms- as if perhaps he didn’t live there alone. 

“Just this way,” he directed the demon, leading him through a narrow entryway, and down a small flight of stairs. The wine cellar seemed to stretch beneath the entirety of his home. Unlike the chaos and clutter of upstairs, the cellar was immaculately kept and organized. In the center rested a small table and a few chairs. Tucked away, nearly hidden in the corner was a small bed, piled high with the same comfortable bedding as upstairs.

If Crowley noticed anything suspicious, he didn't comment on it.

He did, however, grab the wine, and brought it with him. _For the inconvenience_ , he figured.

The demon was pleasantly drunk. The odd sort of saunter was even more pronounced in this state, even more fluid - as if Crowley's body was a step ahead of him at any given moment, instinctive and automatic. Occasionally he'd stop for the odd exchange with certain residents, as the surroundings got _seedier_ \- he liked seedy. He wore it well. Despite his aversion to people in general, watching him interact was like witnessing an entirely different beast - one which oozed seduction and flirtation and _temptation_ \- as your standard demon would.

Still, it was only in fleeting moments, and whenever Aziraphale spoke it'd end as abruptly as it begun, and the angel would have his full attention again.

"Ah," he remarked, when they finally crossed the threshold of Aziraphale's home. "You really - you've really settled in, haven't you?" 

Crowley was shameless in his immediate investigation of the other's space. Thin fingers brushed gingerly over the scrolls (eyes regarding them rather more harshly), the spines of the books. He took special interest in the bedding, which he knew to be useful for but one singular purpose. "Looks comfortable," he'd observed, with a knowing half-grin.

He half stumbled down the flight of stairs, but caught himself easily, as if this level of drunk were a natural state he'd become a bit too accustomed to in his time.

" _Hello_ ," he greeted in a tone that was far, far too warm for a demon, immediately entranced by the collection, which he greedily began to inspect.

The other bottle still hung, half-drunk, from one hand.

The angel shivered upon hearing the warmth in Crowley’s voice. It was neither expected, nor unpleasant, though he supposed he shouldn’t dwell on those feelings. He watched the demon browse his wine collection, feeling slightly uncomfortable to be in such close proximity. It was his home, after all, and Crowley was still a demon.

Aziraphale chose a wine – a personal favorite of his- and settled into a chair comfortably. There was no glass. He swigged it out of the bottle. “So, about this intervention then… ?” he reminded the demon. Crowley was here for a purpose after all. It wasn’t social, at least, not entirely. 

Aziraphale picked at dried fruits, which were contained in a rather ancient looking piece of pottery. It was decorated handsomely with serpents, though they had faded somewhat over time. The piece looked well used, cherished even.

_Petronius lingered outside of the modest little home, ear to the door, desperate to hear even a wisp of something that indicated his sweet Aziraphale was innocent and well. The tall, elegant man thumbed the key in his pocket, working the courage to unlock the door and step inside the threshold._

"Intervention! Right," Crowley continued to stalk through, as if he were putting great effort into trying to pick which bottle he might try. In reality, he felt equally uncertain in the space - rather at a disadvantage he was only just becoming aware of.

Aziraphale was still an angel, after all. It wasn't as if they were _friends._

"Caligula. You know him. Just came from one of his parties - really atrocious affair. I'm meant to be tempting him but I don't think there's anything - probably not anything - he hasn't already done," it was almost entirely flippant, as if he weren't discussing royalty at all. "I'll get the credit, of course. For the parties. But somebody really ought to put an end to it before Hell starts taking notes."

He took a swig from the bottle still in hand, making his way to the other side of the room. Still exploring, but no longer interested in the wine racks.

"I just figure, y'know - if you aren't getting enough recognition. Could be a good one to write home about, end to a new era of sadism and all that." His his 's's, when drunk, were just a bit too pronounced.

Upon closer inspection, the wine cellar contained its fair share of hidden trinkets and treasures. There were little scrolls with poems scrawled on them hastily. A few portraits and paintings tucked away, hung behind wine racks as if their presence was meant to be a secret. There was a rather curious one, tucked especially away, that featured men kissing. One of them looked suspiciously like the angel… and the other man had long, curling red hair. 

“What sort of atrocities?” he questioned, a worrying look glittering in his eyes. If a _demon_ called them atrocities, Aziraphale was afraid of just how atrocious they could be. He shuddered at the thought.

“I don’t like to meddle in human affairs,” he stated, flatly, “But… Well, I…” he cleared his throat, uncomfortable to even utter the words. “I could do it for you. As a- as a favor, I mean.” Heaven wouldn’t hear a word about it, he decided. In any case, he’d gotten comfortable on Earth. It was doubtful that Heaven would appreciate his worldly lifestyle. 

_The key was placed in the lock, but he hadn’t yet the courage to turn it over. He drew a shaky breath, trying to find an inkling of it, somewhere deep down._

"Atrocities! You don't want to know." Actually, Crowley didn't want to repeat them. 

"And it wouldn't be a _favor_ to me for you to thwart evil," he spat, "Big fat cog in the Hellish machine - just wouldn't want them to think you weren't getting enough done. If 's not in your - your..." he trailed off, losing the word.

The demon was still perusing. Snooping in plain sight. He didn't pay particular attention to the portraits, but a few of the scribbled half-poems caught his eye. He lingered on one for a long while, an odd sort of nostalgia in his features -

"Jurisdiction! If it's not in your jurisdiction don't worry about it. I'll just keep on taking credit and it'll take care of itself eventually."

He moved away from that corner, squinting toward the paintings through the racks.

“I don’t mind doing you a favor, Crowley,” he said softly, with a genuine expression of warmth. Despite their differences, he did feel a sense of _belonging_ in the demon’s company. Not that he’d admit it to anyone (or himself, if he weren’t so drunk). 

The next time Crowley would hear of Caligula would be in the newspaper- a murder. One, they’d say, not unlike the slaughter of Julius Caesar himself. There’d be whispers, speculations, of who arranged it all, but no definitive conclusion would ever be found. The angel did have a flair for drama, after all. 

“So, then,” he brightened. “You needn’t worry about these _atrocities_ further.” He nodded his head, more like a drunken bobble, really. “I’ll take care of it. For you.”

"You won't take care of it for me," Crowley leveled, with a decisive glare Aziraphale's way. It was the sort of glare that suggested they both knew, and that the demon accepted, he might. He just couldn't say as much.

A request like that, even an indirect one, would've meant Hell knew how long in the pits - if they didn't skip the pits, altogether. 

"Anyway. 's a nice place you've got. I'll keep it in mind next time I'm around."

Though he had his doubts it'd still be here, whenever that was.

_Petronius heard the men approaching and scrambled off, forgetting the key which he’d stuffed into the lock._

The angel walked Crowley to the door, concluding their business. “Be seeing you” he called, with a hopeful air. He stumbled his way back inside, sitting at the front window to silently watch the demon ooze off, limbs little more solid than a stream of water.

The demon could hear the man outside the door, though made no mention of it. When he left, he took the key, and miracled it out of existence.

* * *

Greece was kind to Aziraphale. It’d already been a beautiful place when he arrived- noting happily that he could almost see himself in so many of the curly-haired statues constructed all about- and it only got more beautiful over time. 

It was a poetic, and loving culture- men always seemed to stop a moment, to enjoy the angel’s company. They were always so polite- kissing his hands or cheeks, writing him sweet letters of friendship, bringing him small gifts. The food was rather scrumptious during this period, and the wine never seemed to stop flowing. 

He’d been invited to a party by his dear friend Quintus. While Aziraphale didn’t know much of these nightly gatherings, his author friend insisted it was the sort of party Aziraphale would feel ‘accepted' and 'most welcome’ and would encourage him to ‘loosen up’. 

He found himself a tad too early, and was instructed to wait by one of the host’s servants. He was given a bottle of wine and taken to a room which seemed draped entirely in dark colored silks. The color was a sharp contrast to the angel- who was pale with light hair and eyes, and his toga was a light creamy blue. There was an incense burning, thick and heavy, which gave the chamber a sultry appeal. The chair Aziraphale sat into was plush- very comfortable and soft. He delighted in the room’s sensual style, as he swigged wine from the bottle.

The demon'd been working for weeks to orchestrate the whole thing. It was a brilliant idea, he thought. Not the first of its kind, but they'd needed a bit of refinement from the beginning. This gathering, he had high hopes for.

Of course, the demon didn't arrive on time. He didn't need to. He wasn't going for the socialization. Crowley didn't care much for the indulgence of it all, either. What he _did_ want was to make absolutely certain that before the night ended, the party had devolved into an absolute den of wickedness.

It hadn't yet, when he stepped through the door. He looked immediately out of place in deep black material, his very presence seeming to suck the light from the room - or perhaps it was intentional. Nobody seemed to notice, though the setting did seem far more _intimate_.

He slunk his way through the crowd, lingering only briefly to greet those he knew - spending more time with those he didn't. He whispered in the ears of strangers, sowed lust through the idlest brushes of hand, honeyed words which begat decadence and sin in all they graced.

It would be less than an hour before a vast majority of the attendees were no longer clothed.

Crowley still was, though the robe hung open loosely over his chest, revealing a shock of pale skin. Presently, an attractive and rather androgynous young man's hands were exploring it - his head laid in the demon's lap, gaze steadfast on his face, utterly enraptured.

Crowley paid him little mind. He seemed more fixated on the glass of wine in his hand, eyes scanning the room through dark glasses he'd not removed since arriving. A wandering hand reached for them and his sharp chin immediately jutted upward; a look of irritation overtook him as he glared down at the human, who promptly slid off to find someone else.

The demon was content to bask in the sin as it bloomed around him, simultaneously ignoring his existence.

Near the demon, a loud conversation could be overheard, laced with lustful breathiness and drunken enjoyment. “The man looks just like an angel, he does. Quintus was right- he looks just like one of them marbled statues. Such an innocent one, too. Hope to sink my claws into that beauty ‘fore the night is through.” 

“Based on the sight of it,” a voice drawled, “there appears to be quite a line. _Everyone_ wants to say they’ve fucked an angel.” 

A third voice mused, “I’ve heard he’s a predilection for literature and sweets. Fucking? Hmph! That’s too easy. I’m to make him fall in love, be mine forever- you just watch and see.”

“Not even your wife loves you, Thucydides! That angel will never give you even a second glance!” chided the first voice. With this, the men laughed heartily, jeering at the romantic’s absurd fantasies.

The angel was still in the same chair as before, positively radiant against the shadow of silk and sin. He was on his third bottle of wine and his thoughts swirled pleasantly in their drunkenness. His cheeks were flushed in a powdered pink, not unlike the color of a lover’s afterglow. His light blue toga looked gorgeous against the sparkle of his eyes and the blush of his milky skin. 

Aziraphale was listening to a rather animated man’s criticisms of philosophy and literature, who was seated across from him. The man was tall and gaunt, features chiseled and angular, with a deep, rumbling voice. The angel looked _very_ interested in what the Atlas-like creature had to say, smiling and nodding his head intermittently with lofted brows. ‘Atlas’ placed a strong hand on the angel’s knee- and Aziraphale let it rest there as if unnoticed. 

He was surrounded by handsome intellectuals, who were all desperate for his affections; chiming into the conversation with obvious one-upmanship. Two were standing on either side of him, and one of them had a tanned hand resting on the angel’s rounded shoulder, possessively. Yet another man sat on the floor beside the angel’s feet, draped on the arm of the chair, strangely serpentine in his lithe appearance.

The demon's eyes narrowed - very, very slowly as that conversation found its way to his ears. By the time it'd concluded, he was in motion.

Crowley circled the room with a different purpose this time - moving between writhing bodies, somehow managing not to touch any of them in the process - though various hands reached for him along the way. He was easy to spot, a shock of black cloth and vibrant red hair slinking his way through the crowd. And so was Aziraphale, when you looked for him.

He really did look like one of the marbled statues. For a moment, the demon found himself frozen, staring.

Before he'd decided whether or not he wanted to, he approached.

"Aziraphale!" he greeted with a sort of friendliness that was _just_ too much to seem sincere. "I didn't realize you were coming. Would've made a better effort to say hello." He paid no mind to whether or not he was interrupting any sort of conversation.

His eyes drifted visibly behind the glasses, first to the men at either side, and then to the one draped near his feet, where it lingered.

He drained his glass. Clearly, his penchant for wine hadn't lessened since they'd last met.

“C-Crowley,” the angel said hastily, nearly choking on his swig of wine. “What an unexpected pleasure!” The light pink flush on his soft cheeks seemed suspiciously redder. “I-I… I certainly didn’t expect to see you here” 

“Not that, not that I didn’t _want_ to see you here”

“B-but not, well, ah, I don’t mean-“ Aziraphale cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very nervous, and very exposed.

“Anyways- How are you? You look…” The angel glanced up and down the demon’s lithe frame. It seemed to pull all the light from around it, draping itself in shadow. Aziraphale bit his lower lip. He was a little too drunk, a little too flustered, and a little too in denial.

“You look well.” He smiled at the demon, warm and sweet in a way not given to the men surrounding him.

"It's a surprise for both of us," Crowley drawled, easing his way through the crowd of suitors as if they didn't exist. Casually - too casually - he perched himself on the arm of Aziraphale's chair, and regarded the man across from him for the first time. His robe still hung loose, looking more like something he'd concocted himself than anything he possibly found out in the world, and specifically for this event.

Pleasantly (too pleasantly), his attention turned back to Aziraphale.

"You know, I helped organize this whole thing," he hadn't in the literal sense, but as he gestured broadly around the room, at the progressively explicit scene playing out before them, his meaning was quite clear. "Didn't know it was your brand of fun; I would've invited you personally."

‘Atlas’ kept a firm hand on the angel’s knee, claiming it possessively. He eyed Crowley, green eyes glittering with irritation at being interrupted. Surely, this angelic man would’ve been his within moments. However, he could be patient. He knew he’d have him by the end of the night. 

The angel’s eyes lingered on the exposed skin of Crowley’s chest, dancing hungrily around the snake’s gaunt frame. He became acutely aware at being surrounded by attractive men in each direction, though Crowley claimed his undivided attention. Eventually Aziraphale’s gaze made it back up to the demon’s eyes. “Well, I’ve never been to a… a party like this before. My friend Quintus suggested it.”

"The poet?" Crowley mused, seemingly oblivious to the gaggle of men around them beyond the initial look they'd been spared. The demon slid one leg casually over the other, letting them hang in front of Aziraphale's seat - dangerously close to bumping into _Atlas's_ arm. It was overtly flirtatious, and the smirk creeping over his features suggested he realized as much. "Maybe you can introduce me."

He sipped from his glass, which he found miraculously full, and leaned toward Aziraphale. "In any case, I really do think you'll like it. Hope you will. I'm quite proud of it - took a while to get to this level, really."

This, of course, was merciless teasing. To the men around, however, he would've looked like any other suitor - albeit a bold and impolite one.

"I overheard some people. Talking about the _angel_ with a love for books and sweets; I thought it sounded strangely familiar." He opted not to mention the rest of the conversation.

“Yes, I’d love to introduce you. He’s very talented. I’m sure you two would get along quite nicely.” He took a long drink of wine, face flushed with pleasure as he savored the tartness.

One of the men standing behind Aziraphale casually drifted off- he knew lovers when he saw them. No chance with the blonde, not right now. He’d try his luck elsewhere. 

He didn’t respond to the demon’s chide- although Aziraphale was rather enjoying it here. Crowley didn’t need to know that. The angel wanted to avoid listening to his gloating (of which, he was sure, would last at least a century). 

“An _angel_ ,” Aziraphale said incredulously with a coy half-smile. He met the demon’s gaze, as if he could see through the glasses, through the yellow eyes, could see into the pit of the serpent’s soul. Perhaps it was the wine, or the erotic atmosphere surrounding them, but his hand itched to wrap itself around the demon’s leg. He resisted- barely- but it counted. “How pertinent”.

"You can introduce me to your poets anytime," Crowley's eyes darted up as the man behind Aziraphale took his leave; he looked an odd sort of smug about it, though it was fleeting.

"But I suppose for now," he murmured, as the angel's eyes captured his own. Crowley's legs, very slowly, unwound themselves - his feet settling back to the floor, "I should leave you be. You looked busy," he gestured to the man before him, as if he were little more than an uninteresting fixture of the room, and rose to stand.

As his gaze rested on the man in front of Aziraphale, the overly-pleasant expression morphed into one of absolute smugness. 

"Until next time, Angel," wry, "and try to let me know if you're going to show up. Bit awkward, wasting my time getting up to mischief when you're already here," though they both knew full well Aziraphale wasn't there to do any thwarting. As quickly as he'd come Crowley was gone, though he made a point of grazing his fingers over _Adonis's_ shoulder as he went.

If he'd instilled a bit of impotence in the process, well... it was purely accidental.

Aziraphale found his gaze following the demon as he took his leave. The interaction felt unusually erotic to the angel, and, if nothing else, left him feeling more excited than before. Ever the opportunists, his suitors sensed it like hungry sharks.

Atlas found a way to pull the angel atop of himself, sucking at the skin of Aziraphale’s neck hungrily. The other two found ways of involving themselves; one kissed the angel’s lips, wild with passion, and the other found his hands underneath the angel’s toga, eagerly exploring its hidden treasure.

The men blended into the party, which had erupted into a sex-crazed dungeon around them, their cries of pleasure lost in the choir of satisfaction and ecstasy. But, if one listened quite closely, perhaps an utterance of a certain name could be heard amongst the chaos. 


	24. I Need Your Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains sensitive themes. [Explicit sex]

“ _Crowley_ …” the angel sighed, his dreams rousing him in their excitement. The angel opened his blue eyes slowly, somewhat disoriented, feeling an ache that wasn’t present when he’d drifted to sleep.

The demon was still awake, holding Aziraphale firmly in his arms. He'd been gazing up, somewhat guiltily at the ceiling for hours, one hand still gently cupping the back of the angel's head, gingerly stroking his hair.

He wanted nothing more than to sleep himself, but knew there was no way he could. Lying there in the silence wasn't very conducive to his usual coping mechanisms. Without the distraction, or drunkenness, or sleep - it was just he and his thoughts. Too many of them. Most of them things he never wanted to think again.

He glanced down upon hearing his name, the movements of his hand stopping immediately. Crowley was half afraid he'd woken him up. "Angel," he murmured nonetheless - wanting Aziraphale to know he was there with him, still keeping him safe. He was entirely prepared to put him back to sleep - if necessary. He hoped it wouldn't be. He hated the feeling it gave him, revoking his control.

He wanted to apologize - bit it back for the moment. Just in case Aziraphale still had hope of drifting off again.

Aziraphale slowly found wakefulness, recovering from his memories and excitements. He nuzzled against the demon’s chest, increasingly aware of the thin, slender frame beneath him. He was in a daze of nostalgia, desire, and sleepiness, and reality was not yet invited to ruin the stupor. 

Aziraphale’s hands wandered, spoiling themselves on the demon’s trim stomach, the protrusion of hip bone. One of his hands traced its way along Crowley’s jaw line, resting itself in his fiery hair. 

The angel found himself kissing Crowley’s neck soon after, the kisses small, and light, and numerous. The gestures were gentle, and while they lacked forcefulness, they were saturated with indulgence. 

“Good morning,” he whispered, despite being unaware of the time. His breath tickled against the demon’s throat. “I missed you..”

Crowley felt himself begin to relax; it was a wonder he managed to at all, but then it was the wonder the angel was resting against him. It was a wonder he could feel the soft rise and fall of his breath, the warmth of it against the curve of his neck. A wonder he could hear his voice, musical even in its sleepiness, and speaking those quiet words.

His bright eyes slid shut, and Crowley's hand slid to cradle the nape of Aziraphale's neck, nestling perfectly into the space - just as, the demon felt, he fit perfectly beneath him.

"It's evening," he offered, not entirely helpful. It'd been the middle of the night when the quake roused him - which meant he'd been asleep for quite some time. "Mm," it was a lazy purr in his throat, one the other could feel beneath his lips as they dotted over pale skin. "Been here the whole time."

He'd also been an anxious wreck the whole time. But now that Aziraphale was awake the feeling had subsided - again pushed to the back of his mind, somewhere out of his awareness, far out of his reach. It was safe to say he'd missed him, too.

"Did you -- er," he couldn't tell whether the other knew he'd made him sleep. Couldn't tell if he'd be angry at him if he _did_ know. He opted to say nothing, to hope for the best, and hated himself a little more for the fact.

"Did you sleep well?"

  
Aziraphale listened to the demon’s breathing, the music of his heartbeat. He was entirely unaware of the problems in the world, and he’d momentarily forgotten the traumas he’d recently undergone. The angel was unaware of everything besides _this_ \- besides the love swelling in his heart, besides being here with his soul mate. Their bodies were two puzzle pieces, conforming together as if they were never meant to be apart- it was comforting and perfect. Aziraphale knew in his soul that no matter what, they just _belonged_ together. That they were made for each other. 

It was a rare moment of complete relaxation. He let the world fall away- the choice was easy- and focused his attention on Crowley. His hand slipped under the demon’s shirt, and traced circles on his warm, smooth skin.

“I had such lovely dreams” the angel said softly, kissing the demon’s skin a little more deeply. “about you”.

The demon inhaled deeply and held the breath for a moment, enjoying the scent of Aziraphale above him. He turned his head - shifted just so until he could bury his nose into the soft, white strands of hair. It still felt odd, that he was able to do so. Finally. And after he'd thought he'd lost it all again -- it would've been like the universe, to rip this from his grasp the moment he'd finally embraced it.

His hold on Aziraphale tightened faintly at the thought. The angel's fingers were moving against his skin, and it was enough to pull him back before it spiralled any further. The demon's torso, he realized, with a pang of nervousness, was still covered in scratches from when the angel had clung to him upon waking - had all but clawed at him in his desperation. He couldn't do anything about it, now, and cursed himself for not thinking to sooner.

"What'd you dream?" he asked, perhaps hoping to delay the inevitable. He'd slipped him thoughts of the Garden - nothing beyond that. Had hoped it'd be enough to conjure good things, rather than the horrors he'd recently faced. "Was I impressive as I am in the waking world?"

  
Aziraphale giggled. “Nothing is as good as the real thing,” he insisted. “I dreamt of older times. The Garden. Sumer. Rome.” Aziraphale conveniently left out Greece. It wasn’t so much the dream that had him hot and bothered – the young attractive men, the party; it’s what he wished would’ve happened all those years ago. He hungrily remembered the demon’s robe, undone- the pale skin that was tantalizing to all who looked upon it. The fantasies infected his thoughts, and he found it difficult to concentrate on anything else. Crowley could’ve easily had him that night, yet he didn’t take the opportunity. The modesty maddened him even more, as he reflected on the demon’s temperance. 

His newly freed hand guided the demon’s chin downward, enough for their lips to meet each other. The angel kissed him slowly, deeply. There was a slow creeping passion working its way into the embrace. Before long, Aziraphale found himself kissing more forcefully, his tongue searching for the other, little murmurs of pleasure escaping his throat. The angel wasn’t good at hiding his intentions, and he didn’t feel the need to try. Crowley knew what he wanted, what he ached for.

  
"Rome," a grimace immediately overcame his expression. For Crowley, it was not an overly happy memory. The visit with Aziraphale had been nice, with the exception of the persistent interruptions. It'd been, perhaps, the first time the demon had felt true jealousy - not that he'd known it back then. Back then, he'd attributed it to the bad mood he'd already been in. Now he understood.

Crowley allowed Aziraphale to guide him, the hand at his nape tensing for a moment and then immediately relaxing once more. It was a little funny, how it seemed to take him by surprise each time; the angel seemed so forthright in his affections, whereas Crowley was stuck, constantly pausing to remind himself there was no longer an unspoken barrier between them.

His intensity matched Aziraphale's, followed the gradual change. He took his time, lips parting on a shared breath before his tongue crept forth to meet the other's, tasting, exploring. It flicked eagerly against his as those quiet sounds were lost between them, and after a moment Crowley pulled away. He didn't create any real distance between them, though he slitted his eyes open - watched Aziraphale's expression as his tongue darted outward to trace his lower lip. Slowly, he angled upward to draw it between his own, sucking it gently between his teeth.

"D'you know," he murmured, once he'd let his lip go with a gentle tug, "I almost asked to stay with you in Rome," he never would've. But the thought had crossed his mind. He recalled the cellar, how much he'd liked it - not just for the wine.

  
The angel inhaled sharply, and enjoyed the unexpected sensation of the demon’s toying mouth, desperately wishing it would explore elsewhere. His lip tingled upon release, and it sent a shiver up his spine. Aziraphale’s face began to flush with want and he took a brief, grounding breath. His eyes glistened with temptation, hanging on the demon’s every movement, and he stared up into Crowley’s dazzling visage with an overwhelming sensation of desire. When the demon spoke, Aziraphale stared at his lips in coveted fascination. 

With great effort, the angel hung onto his composure, despite his thoughts screaming for more. “Why didn’t you ask to stay with me?” he answered breathily, still eyeing the demon’s lips with despondent longing. “I’ve always loved your company. It would have been quite nice.” After a brief pause, in which he smiled lovingly, Aziraphale admitted, “Rome was ever so lonely”. 

The angel found his hand gently tracing itself over Crowley’s collarbone, his touch delighting in the silken skin stretched tautly over bone.

  
The hand at Aziraphale's nape wandered lazily to cup his jaw, and the demon's thumb angled up, slowly making its way across the other's lip as he spoke. He loved his lips, the subtle pout they settled into even when he wasn't, seemingly any time they weren't quirked into a smile. Presently, his focus was on Aziraphale's eyes.

He couldn't tear his own away. Didn't care to try. "I wasn't invited," he said simply, as if it were a perfectly reasonable explanation. "Didn't blame you. Mortal enemies and all that," the words left him in a slow drawl; he knew all too well Aziraphale was transfixed on his lips, and wanted to give him something to watch. "You seemed to have a lot of friends," the words weren't jealous now - looking back on it, Crowley knew he'd been ridiculous. He wasn't above playing at it, though.

Eyes still lidded and filled with nothing short of pure adoration, Crowley stilled for a moment to bask in the angel's gentle touch. Its warmth lingered, his skin tingling beneath it, blooming at the edges of his awareness.

Eventually, Crowley began to shift. It was a slow process, and the demon's lips nestled somewhere beneath Aziraphale's jawline, nuzzling thoughtless kisses to the skin. He moved them both, lowering the angel until his back met the soft linens beneath them. The demon's frame bracketed him from the side, form flush to his, until he finally settled atop him, blanketing him, his lips sought out his adam's apple, parted in a gentle bite.

The entire process was painfully slow, but he lavished attention upon him all the while, kissing the soft skin of his neck, his jaw, the crook of his shoulder. Crowley's gaze always found its way back to Aziraphale's face in between, the soft (albeit markedly more gaunt) curves of his features, his parted lips. Measuring his reactions. He expected he'd have to stop at any moment, and was ready to do so at the first sign of discomfort from his angel.

"I wanted to stay and drink more of your wine. Read more of your poems," the words were a low hum against his skin, just over his collarbone. "I don't think you'd finished them."

The angel watched the demon over enunciate, lips tantalizing him with their fluid movements. He knew it was for his own enjoyment, but that didn’t stop him from savoring the show to the fullest extent. 

“It’s not the same,” he lamented, “Having _friends_ ”. No matter how many _friends_ Aziraphale had made over the years, they never replaced his growing loneliness. It was a feeling of absence that festered for centuries, always as if he were missing something or, as he’d come to understand, someone.

He let Crowley reposition himself with a soft exhale, his breath and pulse quickening in tandem. The serpent took his time- excruciatingly so- and Aziraphale found himself breathless, his eyes all but pleading for more. The pink blush on his cheeks brought life to his pale skin and brought with it a fervid lust. 

“Mm...” he sighed, delighting in Crowley’s weight, the lips against his throat. “I don’t recall reading any poetry together…” he mused, only half-aware of having a conversation at all.

While his own eyes were awash in a familiarly lustful haze, there was a certain awareness there - attentive - thoroughly absorbing every quiet breath, sound, flicker of emotion that crossed his angel's features. "I know," he agreed, a cooling breath over dampened skin as he pulled free of a wet kiss to the juncture of neck and shoulder.

Crowley did know, in a way. The difference between he and Aziraphale was that he'd never really tried to have _friends_ \- of any sort. He'd drifted in and out of various lives, a fleeting presence; the demon never lingered longer than had been necessary to accomplish whatever he'd sought them out for to begin with. Sometimes it had been selfish boredom. Sometimes it had been lust. Sometimes it had been a need to fill the same lonely hollow, however temporarily. Most often, it was work: temptation, influence. the same necessary evils that drove him to most every inconvenience he'd had to put up with throughout the centuries.

The demon's narrow hips sunk into place over Aziraphale's as he straddled him, letting his weight settle comfortably against him. His fingers hooked into the fabric at his collar, urging it lower as his mouth continued to explore. He delighted in the flush dusted over pale skin, the want in his eyes, and continued to attend it at the same leisurely pace. It was as if he were intent on worshipping every inch of flesh that was exposed to him - and maybe he was. The unhurried pace suggested nothing else, nothing but the want to instill him with all the love that burned so fiercely in his heart.

It belonged to him, after all. It always had.

"We didn't. I read it. While I was exploring. You must not've noticed," there was a hint of amusement in his tone, and he glanced up beneath heavily-lidded eyes, the entirety of his sclera still glinting gold, unchecked. "I liked it," he assured, before Aziraphale had a chance to become too embarrassed, and Crowley flattened his hands to his chest, parting the fabric so that he could press a firm kiss to his sternum.

Aziraphale relaxed into peaceful enjoyment. He wrapped his arms around the demon. His left hand was underneath Crowley’s dark shirt, tucked against the small of his back, urging him closer. His right hand wandered- sometimes caressing the curve of his shoulder, sometimes flitting down around his ribs, or tracing a line up to his jaw. It eventually settled on the front of the demon’s thigh, lightly rubbing over top of the well-fitted pants assiduously. 

There was a quiet sensuality to the moment, as they both savored the other’s flesh, all whispers and breath. Aziraphale could feel an increasing _need_ and ache, but there lacked tension. Instead of frenzied burning lust, there was a slow, kindled passion. The torrent of fervid insatiability was replaced with a humid, all-encompassing love. The overall energy, although woven with desire and lust, was harmonious and tranquil, loving. 

Aziraphale found himself lost in the glittering golden eyes which adored him so thoroughly. It was a look that he’d only stolen glances of- Crowley always seemed to hide it behind glasses, or turned away in an attempt to secure his secret longing. But there was no need for secrets, not now. He felt exposed in a way like never before, as he allowed himself to be mesmerized and quietly consumed by the demon’s honeyed irises, letting them wisp themselves into the chambers of his soul.

“They were always written for you anyway” breathed the angel, relishing the warm mouth teasing the bare skin of his chest. He’d only ever been motivated to write poetry in a drunken stupor- coincidentally when his repressed desire found its way out of its cage- and the subject of those desires remained unchanged. He’d never willingly divulge these poems, but it was so long ago that the angel couldn’t remember specific reasons to be embarrassed. His mind was occupied by other things, presently, and had little room for anything other than the demon perched above him, and the love this beautiful creature exuded.

"Not always," he teased, the murmur lost to Aziraphale's skin as a dull shade of red crept up his own neck, overtaking his usual pale tone. He hoped it'd go unnoticed.

The fabric seemed to part for Crowley's fingers as he willed it, and he carried on in his slow descent. He wasn't watching as closely now, but his overall focus had not shifted. His aim - his only aim - was to spoil the angel beneath him, to let him bask in the endless indulgence Crowley'd only given him a fraction of throughout the years.

The whole of it was nearly overpowering.

"There are a lot of poems about _you,_ " he purred against his ribs, devoid of any urgency as the tip of his tongue tasted the subtle curve of bone. He felt as if he were sinking into a warm bath, one he could easily luxuriate in for hours. "Never found one that gets it right, though."

His hips were still firm against Aziraphale's, a grounding point between them. They flexed slightly, as if an afterthought, as his own thighs parted to give Aziraphale's hand more freedom to roam. He bent over him at the waist - nearly impossibly, at this point - as his mouth sought the soft skin beneath the angel's ribcage. While his teeth occasionally grazed him, there was nothing rough or hurried about any of his attentions, small offerings against his skin.

"I've seen Heaven. The galaxies," he was mirroring his path along to the other side, his fingers trailing in the fast-cooling wake of his lips, his tongue. "All the wonders of the world," he nuzzled at the space just above Aziraphale's navel with affection that would've been misplaced, were the situation unfolding any differently. "None of them," a deliberate kiss to the same spot, and Crowley's eyes met Aziraphale's anew, "are half as beautiful, angel."

The fingers of either hand spread up along his ribs, trailed his sides, delicate upon sensitive skin. "I don't think anyone's been able to put you into words."

The angel’s hand accepted the parted thigh gratefully, trailing lightly along its length, savoring the toned muscle and overall enticing shape. His breath was deep and heavy, completely aroused at the demon’s delicate and well-placed kisses. Aziraphale sang utterances of pleasure, soft and wanting, observing the demon’s devotions with hungry, watchful eyes. He wanted the moment to stretch into perpetuity, to relish in it, never before seeing the demon so vulnerable, so attentive. It bloomed desire in its own right, hearts melding as one at his honeyed words.

Goosebumps dotted themselves along the angel’s skin in the wake of the demon’s mouth, chilled and expectant, and the angel let out a trembling breath. He felt the warmth rise- butterflies in his chest- as the demon spoke words laced with reverent affection, unhindered, as if for the first time in six thousand years. The angel’s heart was twisted into an ache of its own, though not unpleasantly so, almost as if Crowley were trailing his lips and fingers along the muscle itself bewitchingly. 

“Oh… Crowley” whispered the sweet angel, not unlike a lover’s sigh, his eyes glistening with love’s ardor. Aziraphale shivered as Crowley’s mouth attended to the softness of his belly. It was a gentle, pleasurable tickle that fueled his passions, and the angel’s grip on Crowley’s thigh slightly tightened. When their eyes met, Aziraphale let out a soft exhale, the demon’s beauty stealing his breath and heartbeat in all of its otherworldly glory. Aziraphale shivered, hairs standing on ends, as the hands trailed up his body on either side. His eyes searched the other’s, imploring, silently screaming enraptured veneration, pleading for there to be no end to the bliss.

It didn't take Crowley more than half a second to interpret the desire that swirled behind those endless blue eyes, nor to identify that plea, and the demon was more than happy to oblige. Though his reservations were already absolved, nothing about his pace quickened. He lingered there a few moments longer, in fact - delicately kissing, sucking tame red marks along his abdomen. They were unlikely to last long, borne of sensation rather than possession, and soon the angel's front was rife with them, flowering across his belly, his ribs, his collarbone.

The demon's body had unfolded at a crawl, creeping back upward along the length of Aziraphale's. His weight shifted when he reached the curve of his neck, long limbs rearranging themselves - one leg draped almost lazily across Aziraphale's, a hand flat to a hipbone. Crowley was curled alongside him now, having arrived there with a seemingly boneless litheness, lips working a heated trail to his ear.

"If I could, I'd hang new stars for you," a quiet murmur when his lips finally brushed it, lingering. Crowley was so closely curled to him it felt as if he might be trying to draw him inward, pull him right into the empty spaces between his ribs where - somewhere - old light still shone through.

The hand on Aziraphale's abdomen moved in aimless circles, though the pressure had increased substantially as it inched its way toward a hipbone, further down. The fabric wrapped around the angel was all but useless now, tangled with the bedding around them, open. Crowley paid it little mind. His focus was on the warmth beneath his palm, his scent, his voice, the soft strands of white that brushed his own forehead at this proximity and the goosebumps he could see on Aziraphale's skin.

"Raise new mountains for you," his hand delved further down. Hidden beneath the blankets, but Crowley wasn't looking anyway. It wasn't for him. Lithe fingers coiled their way along the seam where inner thigh met hip, back up again. Avoiding any substantial touch, but not for want of teasing him - just of prolonging _this._

His teeth closed on Aziraphale's earlobe and it was met with a warm swipe of his tongue, followed by the ghost of his breath - "I'd build you a garden to rival Eden." His hand was still wandering, _feeling,_ familiarizing himself with parts of Aziraphale he'd only ever been able to imagine and committing them fully to memory: the curves of his hips, the softness of his thighs, ignoring the heat between them.

Crowley lifted his free hand, using it to guide Aziraphale's face toward his own, and met his eyes with a heady gaze that bordered on rapt. "Still wouldn't be enough," it was a breath across his lips, stolen back by the kiss that followed, by no means chaste but not lewd either, an outpouring of devotion unto itself.

The angel let the demon’s mouth melt blotches onto his pale skin, his head thrown back in blissful pleasure. His fingers found their way into Crowley’s hair, tugging lightly, and his hips began to gently move with expectation.

Electricity danced through his skin as the demon’s hot breath tickled his neck. Each whisper provoked a deep breath, Aziraphale’s chest heaving with aching desire. When Crowley’s hands began exploring the angel’s soft thighs, they were accompanied by the angel’s groans of unbearable want.

Aziraphale was in his own version of Heaven. It wasn’t the cold, pure space crafted by the icy ethereals. It was here- in messy kisses, and sloppy tongues, and confessions of love. It was here in his beating heart, his quickened breath- here, in Crowley. The angel let it envelop him in its gentle embrace; Crowley its perfect vessel. He let any lingering reservations melt away, and immersed himself in the sensations which threatened to overwhelm him. 

Each caress was more pleasurable than the last, and left him wanting, aching, _needing_. He was crazed with it, body rocking slightly of its own volition. The unhurried sensuality bloomed around them, insulated them from the world, melted everything away until it was just the two of them, just this moment.

A soft moan of pleasure escaped when their lips finally met. It was throaty, and untamed, and ethereal- a pleasure not meant for mortal ears. It was the first time this sound had ever escaped Aziraphale’s lips- not just on Earth. Ever. It was a mix of Divinity and lust, love and vulnerability. 

His wings unfurled, loud against the demon’s muted whispers, and loosened feathers dazzled themselves across the room. The angel poured his soul into his lips, allowing himself to love the demon uninhibited. Together they were truly exposed and, for the first time, free. 

The kisses were deep and slow, and all-consuming, as if they were the beginning and the end all at once. The angel’s wings covered them in a backdrop of pure, crisp white, as they clung to each other, the air heavy with passionate, devoted worship. Aziraphale never wanted to let go again, wanted to live in this moment for eternity, each kiss a prolonged and savored prayer.

Crowley's form shuddered at the sound of that moan, as if it were something physical - velvet over skin-warmed notes of steel that hooked straight into his spirit. For a moment his brow furrowed - a faint groan of his own lost between their lips, practically awestruck.

As Aziraphale's wings unfurled around them, the demon slit his eyes to watch; where normally he might immediately start scanning for grey blemishes, Crowley simply took in the sight of them. One hand reached out without thought, and the demon watched as the fingers vanished beneath pure white feathers, spidering gently between them. He'd never touched Aziraphale's wings - never touched _anyone's_ wings, and the realization that he was washed over him in a tangible shiver of fulfillment.

It nearly overwhelmed him; the fact this was Aziraphale, his angel, here in his arms, that he was touching him at all when he'd thought, at his lowest, he'd never so much as see him again. The formula would never be complete: I and you and the two facts constellating. He could feel his own wings aching to expand, and just barely managed to withhold them.

Crowley's head angled down, idly straining against the hand in his hair as he felt the angel's hips rolling beneath his touch, and finally the demon's hand found its mark. There was no pretense - no feather-light touch, just the demon's fingers coiled snugly around Aziraphale's cock, thumb circling firmly across the head.

"Aziraphale," he breathed against him, exuding warmth - real warmth, unguarded, concerned with nothing in the universe beyond the angel against him. Even his name felt sacred on his tongue, and he allowed it to stand alone, a heated invocation into the space beneath his jaw promptly followed by a sucking kiss. His eyes were open now, desperately fixated on Azirpahale's face, eager to drink in the sight of his pleasure.

Aziraphale shivered as the demon’s hands graced his wings, and ruffled his feathers. It was a first, a new type of vulnerability, and it felt forbidden- a dark, delicious secret- one reserved for Crowley’s knowledge and touch alone. The sensation was overwhelming, almost painful, against the sensitive skin of his wings. It elicited a guttural, ecstatic moan, and a reddened flush quickly appeared on the angel’s blissful visage. 

The reddened cheeks contrasted sharply with his creamy skin, pale blonde locks, and his bright, glittering cerulean eyes. His gaze was a language all its own, expressing what his words couldn’t- the pure adoration, the trust, the pleasure and lust. The angel was nearly panting now, overcome with emotion and luxurious eager excitement.

The angel’s groans of pleasure continued, as the demon began teasing the head of his cock with expert, indulgent hands. His lips sought the other’s, hungrily, a desperate longing clawing itself through the angel’s soul. Despite his fervor and ache, the movements were slow, deliberate, dripping with sensual love and reverence; but there was now a daring forcefulness, as his hips rocked back and forth in their enthusiasm.

His face was colored with euphoric rapture, eyes delivering his soul for the demon’s own pleasure. The angel’s nails of one hand dug themselves in the demon’s forearm, eagerly encouraging his movements. His other hand cupped the demon’s cheek, gentle in comparison, begging for more, for Crowley’s lips and tongue, begging for his love. 

“ _Crowley_ ” he breathed, as if it were a prayer, a worship of the demon’s very being; or perhaps, as if it were a summoning, begging the demon for his possession.

Crowley couldn't look away. Even as his lips crushed to Aziraphale's his eyes remained slitted, unable to look upon anything but the angel's countenance.

His hand stayed buried in soft white, fingers flexing, roaming gingerly through the feathers - impossibly soft. He was careful not to use too much pressure - this in particular was overly gentle, overly reverent.

"I could listen to that for eternity," his tone was still tender - bore an unusual softness, though there was a hint of something else there now - something slightly more guttural, the faintest note of gravel deep in his throat. As the words left him, he began to stroke the angel languidly. He paused on occasion, replacing the firm contact with ghosting fingers, barely-there, only to grasp him again with more fervor - as if every movement were carefully considered and forged with Aziraphale in mind, to drag the pleasure out of him bit by sensuous bit.

At some point, the demon's leg had begun to withdraw from across Aziraphale's. His weight shifted lower - the hand formerly tangled into the angel's feathers trailing them in a single smooth stroke until it came to rest at his shoulder, gripping firmly. "I'd like to hear it again," he spoke between soft bites - purposely targeting the same, fading marks with which he'd branded him moments prior.

He used one knee to gently nudge the angel's thighs apart, his weight settling to the mattress between them as his lips sought out their previous path. Before long, Crowley was picking up right where he left off - this time nestled between Aziraphale's legs. 

"And again," his lips brushed the hollow of Aziraphale's thigh, and the demon flattened his hand over the angel's arousal, thumb still rocking idly - inconsistently - beneath the head. Gold eyes warm, deliberate, watched blue ones from beneath heavy lids as Crowley drew his tongue messily across his own fingers, dragging a heated stripe up the length of the other's cock. It was messy, graceless, and the demon was entirely absorbed, silently willing his name from his Aziraphale's lips.

Aziraphale’s body arched beneath him, as the passion overtook him, as it drowned him in the throes of the demon’s sensual torment. His fingers kneaded into the locks of fiery hair, pulling unwillingly out of zealous lust. Obsessive desperation clawed itself into his soul as if overshadowing his very essence. “ _Crowley_ ” he responded as bidden, voice broken and wild, willing to do anything for the demon’s pleasurable gifts, freewill crumbling at the promises of his mercy. 

The silence of the bedroom was littered with whispering whimpers and throaty moans. The angel was panting with throbbing, aching want, mad in ecstasy, hands wandering to wherever they could bury themselves- his nails dragging across the demon’s back and shoulders, his forearms, anywhere, everywhere. 

Aziraphale maintained a steady gaze, broken only by moments of euphoric bliss, as his head was thrown back in torturous pleasure. He watched the demon’s tongue sloppily consume him with bestial, ravenous eyes, his lips parted in hoarse rasps of enjoyment. “ _Crowley_ ” he gasped, as if commanded to do so. His body trembled with the electrifying sensation of the demon’s hot, exploring mouth. 

“Please,” he begged, “Oh, _Crowley…_ oh, please… _Crowley..._ ” his plea was like a mantra, whispering the demon’s name in devoted worship. His hips reflexively curved forward, desperate for more, cock quivering in anticipation. “ _Please…_ ”

"Louder," Crowley commanded without so much as a half-second of hesitation, though it was less a firm order as it was a breathy drawl, the warmth clouding oversensitive skin. Hearing his name on the angel's lips, the desperate plea it was as it bled into the quiet of the room, sent a pleasant shiver running down his spine - one which evolved into a groan when he registered the sensation of Aziraphale's fingers tugging at his hair.

The demon's eyes flickered closed, and he set a sloppy kiss to the side of his length, cupping it in his hand as he proceeded to repeat the action - once - twice - lingering a little longer each time as he progressed toward the tip. One final kiss replaced his thumb - tongue worrying at the spot instead for a moment, and then Crowley took him between parted lips, loosing a quiet purr around his cock as it sank into the warmth of his mouth.

It was an arduously slow process, and the demon's tongue writhed lewdly against him all the while; it curled against him just a little _too_ perfectly, all-encompassing and liquid. Everything about it was shameless - the outright eagerness, the pointed groans, the way his own hips snaked faintly within the confines of torturously tight jeans. He was sensitive enough already that the fabric edged the line of discomfort - just how he liked it.

Both of his hands came to rest at Aziraphale's thighs, and he braced them against the lines of his hips, fingers kneading in gently with the occasional, soft bite of nails. His legs shifted forward, nudging themselves under the angel's, beneath his knees, coaxing them further apart.

Using the grip on his thighs, Crowley intently drew the other's hips toward his own mouth - a shock of yellow-gold, permissive, catching Aziraphale's gaze. _Anything you want, angel._ He didn't have to say it. They'd both known for as long as he could remember.

The angel all but shouted the demon’s name at his command- his mind thoroughly addled in a stupor of festering, infectious desire. He was powerless against it and so fell into it, crushed under its weight, willing to do anything for relief. 

Aziraphale beat his wings against the bed in his madness, the ache painful and somehow worsening with every tantalizing provocation of Crowley’s artful mouth. The angel’s body curled beneath him, and he cried out in delirious pleasure as the demon’s mouth enveloped him in his entirety. 

The angel’s moans of pleasure quickly devolved into little more than hoarse grunts as he clawed at the demon in fervid ecstatic torment. His head was thrown back in hedonistic indulgence, his brows furrowed, lips parted to utter his satisfactions, to cry the demon’s name in obedient rapture. 

Before long, Aziraphale felt a warmth begin to coil in the pit of his stomach. The fire kindled with each reverberating purr within the demon’s throat, with each sloppy suckling of his length, the rocking of the angel’s hips which pushed himself further into the demon’s welcoming mouth. 

He didn’t want it to end- it couldn’t- the painful build up of unreleased pressure was less of a punishment. He felt he couldn’t exist without _this_ \- the demon’s eyes hungrily watching his enjoyment, the lips and tongue sucking his cock as if they existed for that purpose alone, the overwhelming sensations curling themselves hotly in his loins. 

Still, he wanted more, he wanted it _all_. He couldn’t exist without it; he _needed_ it- _needed_ Crowley inside of him, _needed_ to share the pleasure between the two, as if there was too much of it for him to experience alone.

Aziraphale had no ability to speak with pleasantries. He growled at his companion, voice gruff and pained with need, “ _Fuck me_ ” he begged, “ _Fuck me- I need you_ ”. He met the demon’s eyes to the best of his ability, barely able to do more than passively indulge in the Heaven of Crowley’s skillful lips, “ _Please, love, please_ ”. A groan loosened itself from his throat, guttural and raw, a testament to his hysterical bliss.

The electricity coursed around them, tangible in the space, and Azirphale's voice, his plea ground it in a single white-hot jolt down Crowley's spine, earning a full-bodied shudder. The room, the world around them felt vacuous, seemed to fade from the corners of his vision because it didn't matter - none of it mattered, his universe was there beneath him, panting his name like a prayer and burning brighter than the fucking sun.

One of the demon's hands strayed from its place at Aziraphale's hip, slunk between his own thighs. He unfastened his jeans so slowly he may as well have been counting the teeth on the zipper. His own desire had gone ignored up to this point, and Crowley was still more focused on Aziraphale - his mouth around him and tongue impossibly hot in its ceaseless assault, the messy, suckled kisses and throaty groans - so much so that when his hand finally slid beneath the coarse material to stroke himself his hips nearly jutted forward.

Crowley didn't stop immediately at the other's demand - in fact, it seemed to lend to his enjoyment, and the demon continued in his attempts to work him closer to that edge, always lessening his intensity at the last second, withdrawing for a trembling kiss or softer swipe of tongue, keeping Aziraphale suspended in the moment with him. He shoved his jeans down - took his time removing them entirely, kicking them aside before the same hand lifted to unfasted what few buttons remained on his shirt, equally slow.

Much like Aziraphale preferred food crafted with love, Crowley preferred to take his time, allowing the moment to steep in the warmth of progressively dizzying pleasure.

The scratches, the bruises, were still visible. Crowley didn't care. The thought didn't even pass through his brain - he was too busy fumbling aside with one hand, blindly searching the drawer of the night table for the small bottle of lubricant, a cold smattering of the viscous fluid dripping messily against Aziraphale's skin.

The demon canted his head upward, mouth parting from him with a wet sound, a slow circle of tongue, and two fingers smeared through the glistening substance as it dripped along the angel's inner thigh, trailed a chilled path inward, where they began to circle his entrance. It was as much to tease as it was to warn him of what was to come, and Crowley waited to push them inward, doing so slowly as he began to inch back up Aziraphale's form. His fingers flexed - crooked - began to move within him at a tantalizing pace as the demon loomed over him, back arched, head cocked to drag lips along his jaw.

"Up," he urged him, his free arm slinking around the angel's waist - low enough to avoid the stinging scar between his shoulder blades, not wanting any tainted memories to impact the moment, the gravity weighing so heavily between them. He lifted Aziraphale easily - drew him against his own form, practically into his lap, supporting their combined weight on spread knees. All the while he littered his neck in ardent kisses, imbued with the depth of his own passion, ceaseless. His fingers withdrew once he'd had time to bask in the reaction, the mewls, the twitches and sighs, and Crowley's hips angled upward in an aimless undulation which tore a shuddering breath from the depths of his chest.

The angel's demand had made him painfully aware of his own desire, blunt and unyielding. It hammered at his last vestiges of poise, and as his hips ground up to meet him - his own arousal grazing the soft skin of Aziraphale's thigh - they shattered entirely. Biting down at the crook of the other's shoulder, as if it might help quiet himself, Crowley continued to wind against him, obscene, cock already slick with its own need but a hand dropped between them to further prepare it by way of a few lazy strokes, another dribble of cold lubricant that sent a tangible shiver through his thin frame. He used the same hand to guide himself into place, breath heavy on his skin, and pushed into him.

"Aziraphale," Crowley groaned coarsely, forgetting himself, a sharp hiss cleaving the 'z' in his name into something more desperate, more _his own_. His hips moved of their own volition, slow, savoring, as if they knew as well as he there was no way he'd last more than a few minutes, equally unwilling to let it end.

Aziraphale’s hips rocked, pushing himself further towards the edge, greedily using the demon’s mouth as if it were made for his pleasure and his alone. It was maddening; the delirious bliss rippled its way into every inch of his body, digging itself into the recesses of his soul. He felt his muscles trembling and tensing, threatening to betray his control, begging to convulse with gratifying salvation. 

His hands clawed the demon, the bed sheets, himself. He was only half conscious of what or who his nails gripped, not feeling the pinch of them as they dug into his own chest, not feeling the beads of red pooling onto his dampened pale skin. His mind was unhinged, vanquished by Crowley’s tongue lapping at his sex with unhurried, commanding strokes. He was deranged, overcome by the demon’s imperious will, unable to tolerate such thorough attentive pleasure. 

His grunts were labored, pained, as if the pleasure itself was injurious. Every moment that stretched between them was an eternity unto itself. It was all Aziraphale could do to contain the pressure which built so steadily, threatening to erupt with the slightest jolt of unexpected delight.

The cool sting of lubricant, the warm fingers sliding into him, the demon inching his way up his body- he shuddered in the sensations. They were overwhelming, threatening his composure which was slowly crumbling away, unable to withstand the assault of intimate satisfaction. Closer now, hardly contained, his visage was strained with the excitement, the bliss, the pain of blunting his desperate release.

He felt the demon lift his body, cradling it into his lap expectantly, felt the teeth biting into his shoulder, heard the cry of bliss muffle itself into his skin. Aziraphale cried out in ecstasy, the demon’s cock filling him with hard, hot torturous deliverance. He felt his body grind up and down Crowley’s length, savoring the fullness and pressure, begging for release. 

His eyes rolled back in rapture; sweat beading down his neck and chest, lazily mixing with droplets of dark red blood. It was everything he wanted it to be, needed it to be, their moans and sloppy kisses pushing him further to the brink of no return. 

Crowley’s sighs of enjoyment shivered through his skin. His wings spread themselves wide, stretched taught, as if fighting to tear his body into pieces. He heard his voice crying out the demon’s name again and again- it was a prayer, a mantra, a plea.

“ _Crowley_ — ah, I’m going to…” Aziraphale’s breaths were ragged, his chest heaved onerously. 

“I’m… I’m…” his moans were rasp with ecstasy, unable to contain the pleasure boring into him, feeling it slip out of his control. “Ahh—!” his cry echoed against the walls, ethereal and divine, ripped from his throat at last. 

The angel’s hips lurched, discordant, his seed spilling hot against Crowley’s stomach, dripping down their thighs. Aziraphale’s head lulled back, the pleasure immortalized in his countenance, as his body shook with arduous spasm.

Aziraphale's nails pierced the heady veil of lust, magnified it tenfold. Crowley was blissfully lost - awash in sensation, blindly peppering sweat-slicked skin with lascivious kisses, bites which barely managed not to draw blood.

Soon enough, he sought out his lips again - a fervent kiss to house the continual low sounds, utterances of his name. He stayed close - shared breath, forehead set against Aziraphale - form quivering slightly with exertion between supporting their weight, trying to manage the escalating pleasure which was already nearly too much to bear.

His eyes were open - voraciously consuming every detail, the soft curve of Aziraphale's lips around his name, the slight furrow of his brow, the way the angel's form shuddered and writhed against him, the beads of sweat clinging to his skin. He couldn't see him the last time - this time he couldn't look away. Nothing could've claimed his attention so thoroughly; no-one could've earned such pointed affection, devotion, such _love_. Only Aziraphale. It would only ever be Aziraphale.

He registered the broad expanse of wings and his own ached, thrashed beneath his skin and for a moment he felt a pang of panic - Gabriel had healed him but he hadn't looked to see the state of them, hadn't taken the time to note whether or not they looked anything like they should. The pain had been so terrible, he was barely sure he'd stopped feeling it.

Aziraphale said his name and the thought fled his mind.

He fucked him harder - still slow, still pointed in every movement but it was clear the tapestry of his restraint was unravelling. Every nerve in his body tingled, sparked, wrought by the sensation of Aziraphale around him, the knowledge that he could drive him to such rapture. The latter notion was confirmed as those words were lost between them, and Crowley immediately slunk close, a hand darting out to twist amongst soft feathers as he hissed lowly into his ear.

"Show me, angel. Come for me," it was a wonder he could form sentences at all at this point, the words barely sounding his own, as if they bled unknowingly from his subconscious, a thread of possessiveness that wanted to covet every aspect of the angel's ecstasy. He felt Aziraphale tighten around him and drove into him harder - pulling back slightly to take in the sight, more pleasing to him than any other -

Crowley didn't notice when black feathers intermingled with white in the air around them, barely registered the violent sound of his wings and their sudden presence in the room as he finally lost that last shred of control, the last thread unwinding and coiling in the pit of his gut, outward around every nerve, every muscle, every reddened inch of skin, _tightening_ \- 

He felt Aziraphale's release, watched his eyes, his mouth, lips molding soft around the shape of every syllable that left them. The slightest noise from Aziraphale now made his ears ring, sent prickling heat through his entire body, to the tips of his wings which hung slack behind him, like they'd never properly booted up -

The demon surged forward to claim his lips, kissing him like he wanted to devour him whole, driving into him with a few more curt thrusts before his hips shuddered to a gradual halt, buried deep within him and trailing him right over that precipitous edge, the kiss broken on a hissed gasp of his name.

Crowley clung to him, chest heaving, and his head dropped to rest against Aziraphale's shoulder, hips still twitching involuntarily but he wasn't willing to break the contact yet, wasn't ready to pull away, to leave the garden they'd built.

The angel’s breathing was deep, and slow, as he tried to still his racing heart. He wanted to speak- wanted to say ‘ _I love you_ ’ and ‘ _You’re beautiful_ ’ and ‘ _That was incredible_ ’- but his words had all too easily abandoned him, leaving him alone in his stunned silence. 

Aziraphale, instead, held the demon close, doting on him all the while- kissed his brow, smoothed his hair, healed the scratches he’d so carelessly inflicted upon Crowley’s flesh. The gestures were entirely unnecessary but loving all the same. The angel felt he needed reasons to continue their embrace, and so he found them, however small they may have been.

He found his hands preening the other’s wings- what he could reach of them, anyway- sadly noticing their damaged state. He ran his fingertips delicately over a featherless patch, cool Divinity flowing, in an attempt to mend any hurt. Grey, fuzzy down sprang in its wake- not unlike a soft covering of moss flourishing in the ashes of wildfire. 

His heart was heavy, imagining what Hell had done to his dark angel. Aziraphale knew he was responsible for the demon’s maltreatment. It wasn’t just the demon bargaining his own soul; an attempt to spare Aziraphale’s own suffering. It was their union in general, a forbidden coupling, which put his lover in danger by the very fact of its existence. 

There was a selfishness that he couldn’t shake- he loved being together, he needed it, couldn’t bear to live without it- but did he love it enough to risk Crowley’s life? It was a question for another time, but the worry and sorrow began to etch itself in his sweet blue eyes.

He cupped Crowley’s cheek tenderly, drawing it up to meet his lips in a long, gentle kiss. There were so many things the angel wished to say, but his voice had been lost in the wonder and amazement of it all, and so, bathing in the afterglow of their togetherness, he settled for these small instances of affection, of love.

"Don't get rid of all of them," came the quiet protest, as Aziraphale began to heal those scratches. He liked them. Wanted to bask in them as the pleasure began to subside - he felt a bit ridiculous, saying it aloud, but not enough to correct himself. Crowley's wings shuddered slightly beneath Aziraphale's hands, as if their existence had only just managed to infiltrate his awareness. He exhaled, measured, and turned to nuzzle at the angel's jaw, taking advantage of the moment in which affection was so _easy_.

Everything seemed easy, at present. Seemed right. Aziraphale drew him into a kiss and he returned it with eyes closed, the hand that'd buried itself beneath the other's feathers withdrawing, smoothing gingerly over the curve of his shoulder. It stilled, splayed at one side of Azirphale's neck, nestled comfortably over his pulse.

Gradually, the demon sank forward, lowering Aziraphale back to the mattress, and draped himself comfortably atop him. For once there were no tumultuous thoughts threatening to choke his reason, no running internal commentary looping through his daily anxieties and fears; pleasantly, there was still just Aziraphale.

"I love you," he murmured without opening his eyes, hands still idly roaming his body, lazy in his exhaustion. Then he repeated it again. Once more, into his shoulder - almost like he was saying it just to hear it in his own voice. Part of him was; it wasn't the first time, but it was the first time he didn't think about it, didn't weigh the words or worry about the reaction.

The angel did as the demon bid, and left a few small scratches behind. A souvenir. Although they marred the demon’s smooth, pale skin, Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel _proud_ of the marks. The presence of these blemishes- and his lover’s insistence on their remainder- solidified something unspoken between the two of them, something that Aziraphale found inherently _pleasing_. Possession. He admired the body that belonged with him, belonged _to_ him. Admired the lips that would never kiss another, the hands that would caress only him. _His._

He let Crowley gingerly place his tired frame on the bed beneath them, a delightful, relaxed sigh escaping his lips. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon, holding him tightly, enjoying the intimacy of the moment, hoping to hold onto it for just a while longer. It was a Heaven all its own, the weight and warmth enveloping him, a fleshy blanket of serenity.

He ran his fingers through the demon’s hair, brushed fingertips along his shoulders and neck, kissed his cheek. The angel’s smile was bright and beautiful- beaming as if the terrible, torturous events hadn’t existed, as if he hadn’t woken up screaming and clawing at Crowley, begging for him to never let go. 

He felt his breath leave him, heart skipping, when the demon uttered those words. _I love you._ How he’d waited for them, begged for them over so many years, needed them in his darkest hours. And now here they were, floating musically in the air, casual and genuine, as if they’d always been, as if they’d always be. 

“ _I love you too_ ” sighed the angel, a hint of daydream lingering in his harmonious voice. “I love you, too”.

The demon shifted gradually, until his weight had settled beside the angel rather than immediately atop him - it was sticky, and it was hot. The bed still immensely warm around them, and for the first time in what was likely a great many years, Crowley willed off the heat.

"Mm," it was a decisive sound, quiet as the demon's limbs draped over Aziraphale, around him, trapping the other's body against his own. Eventually, his eyes slid open again - just barely - enough to watch his fingers working thoughtless patterns across the angel's chest. Tracing the marks he'd left behind, most of them mild, save for the rather more vicious bite to his shoulder and a few wayward bruises where his self control had faltered. He liked the sight of them, the significance - a selfishness that, for once, didn't concern him.

Eventually he was speaking again, his gaze still steadily transfixed on his own fingers, tracing constellations into his angel's skin.

"Stay with me." Not a question. Also not, perhaps, entirely clear.

Aziraphale enjoyed the demon’s thin fingers tracing the marks around his body- the scratches and bruises, the souvenirs of their love making. He even delighted in the purple-black bite mark despite the blooming soreness underneath Crowley’s fingertips. 

Even more pleasant, was the thought that perhaps his companion had the same ideas. The same _possession_. The same dark happiness in owning the angel’s body, dominating the angel’s heart, in being the keeper of his soul.

Aziraphale felt a new pleasure taking root- one of _being_ possessed, of _belonging_ , of swearing fealty to his companion so _completely_. It was a pleasure of knowing his lover’s adoration bordered on zealous devotion. _Worship._ He wanted nothing more than to see it glittering in Crowley’s eyes- just as before- again and again… and again. 

“I’m right here,” cooed Aziraphale, voice musical and light. His eyes lingered on the demon’s wandering hands, amused and appeased. “Though I’d quite like to shower, in a bit.”

"That's not what I meant," Crowley managed not to snap - the instinct was there, defenses starting to creep back into existence - but they weren't quite constructed yet. His hand stilled briefly before resuming in its former path, as if he'd paused to consider what he wanted to say next. If he wanted to say anything.

"I mean stay. Here," as if that helped - though his meaning was plainer from the anxiety sapping his eloquence. "In the flat." He knew they wouldn't be parted any time soon - it was an unspoken fact that Crowley wasn't going to let Aziraphale out of his sight, for the foreseeable future. But he wasn't talking about the foreseeable future, necessarily. 

"There's enough space. You can have bookshelves. Many as you like," the first hints of quiet panic and a want to not have asked came in the form of his completely flippant tone, as if he were tempting him to lunch, in his continuing attempt to oversell: "Whole office. I don't use it, but I bet you'd be able to."

He still wasn't looking at him, trying not to betray his own self-consciousness.

“Oh… I..” Aziraphale shifted, uncomfortably. “What about the shop? My-my bookshop?” He looked around the bedroom, as if envisioning it replacing his own, replacing his home. Replacing his wardrobe. His back room. His angel mug. 

“Leave Soho? I’ve been there for… for two hundred years…” No more rows of shelves. No more cozy chairs. No more first editions. No more secrets.

His eyes were glistening with tears. He never before wanted something, and simultaneously not wanted it, to such an extent. “I can’t- I don’t think..”

He took a deep breath, and sat up, gazing at the demon intently. His countenance was stern- a seriousness boring itself in the delicate curves of his features. He held Crowley’s hand, sweetly, as if he were unwillingly about to deliver the bad news.

“What if…” he began, in a shaking voice, “What if we got a-a _new_ place. For _us._ And kept our usual ones?”

"'sonly five minutes away, not like you couldn't still-" Crowley'd begun to protest - but Aziraphale was going on and he gave up almost immediately. His fingers had ceased in their movement again, though his eyes were still trained on them as he considered Aziraphale's words, let them settle in his mind before he bothered to sift through them.

Crowley liked the flat, but he didn't bear any particular attachment to it - just some of the objects it housed. Moving them into another space would essentially land them in the same arrangement - one place and another, and he couldn't manage to wrap his head around the point. What difference did it make if it were these walls or someplace else's?

"Well - it'd be a bit excessive, wouldn't it? Not like I can't go see you at the shop."

The demon gave Aziraphale's hand a faint squeeze, reassuring, as he lay in his ruffled mess of wings, though he'd shifted his gaze to the ceiling. And that was that, and he'd pretend it never happened.

"You'd want tartan pillows or something, anyway."

“Tartan is stylish” he insisted, a small smile perched cutely on his lips. He laid back down, next to Crowley, though couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Not anymore. The mood had changed in an instant.

“I suppose we could- we could alternate? For a time.” His eyes searched the demon’s face- for even a glimmer of an answer, a hint of the right thing to do, to say- but he wasn’t looking at Aziraphale. The golden eyes were decidedly fixated on the ceiling- one, the angel was sure, that Crowley had seen a thousand times already. He felt his smile falter slightly- Aziraphale knew the damage had already been done.

What, perhaps, the angel should have said is: _Yes, let’s move in together, I’m scared of change but I love you, I know you want to keep us safe, You’re more important than my bookshop, I love you, I love you, I love you._

But he didn’t. He didn’t say those things, because he didn’t know how to say them.

“I love my home,” he whispered. _And I’m afraid._

Crowley waited a moment, and then a moment more. Most of his belongings - the important ones, at least - could probably fit easily into the bookshop. The bookshop, which was the only reason the flat existed, where it did and when it did.

"We can alternate," he agreed simply, sounding as if he'd just been spending a moment thinking it over, rather than allowing himself to hope for an invitation that didn't come.

He shifted, finally tearing his gaze from the ceiling, and moved again to wind himself around Aziraphale. He didn't seem tense or particularly upset - more concerned, in fact, with making sure the angel wasn't. He pressed a kiss to his temple, lingering.

"I know you do. I didn't mean for you to get rid of it or anything - wouldn't dream of that," thin fingers bracketed a cheek, slid up into Aziraphale's hair.

The demon loved his home, too.

His home just wasn't a place.

"At least let me stay with you for a while," he persisted, though it was a different request now. For the foreseeable future. Until it was safe enough he didn't have to. "Until things relax."

It wasn't so much a question as Crowley announcing his own intent, no room for rejection.

"D'you think we should get out of bed, eventually? Dinner?"

Aziraphale closed his eyes and smiled as the demon coiled around him and kissed his temple sweetly. He drew Crowley closer, enjoying the warmth and love he exuded, and was relieved to find the mood a little lighter . His thoughts floated to the bookshop, wondering if he could do some renovations... an extra room perhaps..

He nodded briefly, a silent agreement to the demon's request although he didn't ask for one, and his lips found themselves brushing against the closest bit of skin. "Until things relax," he repeated softly. He continued pondering renovations, if they were a reasonable thing to do, if perhaps it was just a bit too soon. The thoughts went undecided.

"I would rather like a shower, dear," reminded the angel, his eyes opening lazily. "And dinner would be _lovely_." His smile returned to its dazzling, ethereal beauty, as he looked upon his lover with tender affection.

Crowley was incredibly relieved when the angel opted to let the issue go. It spared him the angry, argumentative half of his counterpoint - which was still ready to explode at a moment's notice, if the situation called for it.

Water off ducks, he reminded himself.

"I was subtly hinting that you should go take one," Crowley drawled, peering up at him with an expression that suggested it was far more obvious than it had been. "Though if you'd rather stay here a few more minutes, I can always go first."

Crowley was generally the type to miracle filth away, when he could. At present the forces of his own mind were working against him, and he wanted a moment to stew in his complete and utter embarrassment privately before he returned to business as usual.

“Right,” the angel chuckled, embarrassed at missing the demon’s (seemingly nonexistent) social cues, “of course! I’ll- ah- I’ll get to it then!” He wiggled himself out of their embrace, rolling out of bed to stand. 

He stretched his arms up to the ceiling, feeling his spine crack as the vertebrae were liberated from their tension. Aziraphale rolled his neck briefly, the same manner of clicking noises audible as his bones settled into place. His wings retracted with the usual scraping of flesh, popping of bones- a sickening sound for those unaccustomed. He regarded the demon, as if he were about to speak, but chose not to.

Wordlessly, he turned toward the doorway. The scars on his back were a deep, twisted pink- ugly against the flawless creamy skin surrounding them. They were nestled neatly between his shoulder blades, marring the beauty of his form, an unsightly reminder of the events they’d momentarily forgotten as they devoured each other. Aziraphale strode out of the bedroom, leaving the demon alone. 

He walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind him, and leaned his weight against it with a soft sigh. There was a weariness clinging to his bones, threaded into flesh and spirit alike, and now that he was alone, he allowed himself to feel it. There was no smile on the angel’s visage. No spark dazzling in the blue ocean of his eyes. Just a dreary encompassing emptiness.

He stood in front of the mirror, taking note of the bruises and scratches. He brushed his fingertips atop of the purple, stinging bite mark on his shoulder, feeling the grooves of it- nearly a perfect mold of Crowley’s teeth, he observed- and winced slightly as it provoked the pain. He didn’t heal it, and did nothing to relieve the soreness.

The angel waited for the water to warm- which seemed like it took entirely too long- and stepped into the shower, sighing as the water ran along his skin, rinsing the filth of their coupling from his person.

Crowley watched the angel intently as he rose from the bed, shifting onto his side. His head rested in the crook of his own arm, yellow eyes glinting in the dim light of the room, taking in the sight of him. There was a brief flicker of curiosity when it looked as if Aziraphale might speak, but the demon didn't question it when no words came.

As Aziraphale turned away, Crowley's eyes narrowed. It was the first time he'd gotten a good look at his back, at the twisted scars. Suddenly, the angel's refusal didn't seem quite so heartbreaking. The familiar feelings, the only ones that had remained with him down in the pit, infiltrated his thoughts, fast-rolling black clouds, the sort that would herald a storm worthy of the Apocalypse itself. They were almost visible passing over his features, eyes cast in a momentary darkness that lingered, reflected the want for vengeance.

The fact that it came so easily, so _readily_ , unnerved Crowley, and he tried to force the thoughts from his mind.

With Aziraphale out of the room, the demon brought up the lights considerably. He slithered his way out of tangled sheets, moving to stand at the bedside, where he hesitated. A hand reached out, and Crowley found himself grazing thin fingers over one of the feathers that littered his bedding - white and pure against deep black. He hadn't seen any grey - not that he could recall. Something like happiness flickered within him at the thought, though it was immediately quashed as his hand trailed to a black feather beside it.

The demon drew a long breath, and moved to the opposite side of the room. There was a full-length mirror situated near his wardrobe, and he came to stand before it - wings tightly tucked to his back. Bit by hesitant bit, he expanded them.

He'd never taken very good care of his wings. He didn't like to think about them. Didn't like to look at them, didn't like to expose them. They were the starkest reminder of everything wrong in his life - wrong with him - and as with most things that upset him, he tended to ignore their existence. Now, held out in a manner that looked almost proud from a distance, he hated them even more. The once sleek black feathers looked worn - thinned. Some patches were still missing entirely, others just barely growing in. He resembled a cage-bound parrot that'd massacred his own wings - and now they weren't even that bad. Crowley flexed them slightly, then folded them. After staring a moment longer, he withdrew them with the usual sharp crunch of bone, expressionless as they vanished from the space.

He shuddered to imagine what they'd looked like before Gabriel's help.

He needed to contact Gabriel. He needed to - continue to - make sure Aziraphale was alright. He needed to return to Hell, preferably with a tanker-truck full of holy water. He needed to destroy Michael - and potentially a number of other angels, far stronger than he.

The list was growing rather insurmountable.

He caught sight of his own eyes, tired, in the reflection, and turned away. With a snap of his fingers, he was clean and dressed. Crowley strode from the room, pulling his phone from a pocket, and dropped heavily onto the sofa. While he waited for Aziraphale, he looked at their options for dinner.


	25. Welcome to Earth!

Gabriel startled himself awake with a loud snore. Although it was dark in the flat, with a spread of his fingers he willed dimmed lighting throughout each room of the apartment. His throat was dry, hoarse. It was a disgustingly human sensation. He shuffled into the kitchen, once again appreciating the artwork along the way, and looked for water. 

The kitchen was beautiful. Marbled countertops shone brilliantly white even in the low light. He opened all of the drawers and cabinets, the doors banging together noisily, and he only found the glasses in the very last one. Not bothering to close the doors, he poured water into the glass from the tap, and drank from it deeply. The tap was still on.

There was a knock at the door. 

The Archangel spun to face it, tossing the glass behind him, and strode for the front entrance as the cup shattered loudly against the floor. 

If Gabriel had known what a peephole was, he might have used it. Instead, he flung the door open, static clinging to his fingers, ready to decimate the unholy, foul beings attempting to disturb him.

“Hello sir,” smiled a portly, jolly looking man. His lanky companion nodded. “Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and savior, Jesus Christ?”

The electricity vanished. Fucking humans. 

“What about Jesus Christ?” he inquired, violet eyes intrigued by the question, as if these humans knew something very important. He gestured quickly. The humans looked at each other with a delighted glance and shuffled inside. 

Gabriel slammed the door shut behind them, and urged the humans to have a seat. He didn’t offer them anything to eat or drink, simply because he didn’t realize he was supposed to- he had no knowledge of human customs. The men looked somewhat nervous. 

“We are here,” the lanky one began, “to tell you about the Word of God”. 

“I’m listening,” Gabriel boomed. “What does _She_ say?”

The men exchanged a glance. “ _He_ wants us to help save your soul. Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”

“Lord--- Jesus?” Gabriel was confused. Surely they weren’t talking about _Jesus_. “Savior? Savior of what?” 

“Jesus died on the cross for us,” the portly man asserted. “To absolve us of our sins. To absolve _you_ of _your_ sins, so that you might find eternal peace in Heaven.” 

“Oh- That wasn’t _my_ policy decision!” he scoffed, vehemently shaking his head. He looked at the pair of men, a serious look glaring in his purple irises, “ _I am without sin._ I don’t need absolution.”

The men shuffled nervously, and the lanky man’s trembling hands were gripping a pamphlet, urging it towards Gabriel. It was orange and had a picture of a thorned crown.

“W-we are here to offer you… absolution. And s-salvation..” 

Gabriel’s anger flared. This wasn’t the word of the Almighty. It couldn’t be. His voice had become quite loud. “My soul does _not_ need absolution. _WHO SENT YOU, **DEMON**?_”

The Prince of Hell's eyes slid open, sharpened steel glinting in darkness.

Moments later, Beelzebub was descending the steps that led from their room to the apartment proper, looking for all the world as if they were prepared to raze the source of that voice - and the meek ones entertaining it - to ash.

The demon stopped at the foot of the stairs, and glared grimly at Gabriel's back. "Nobody," their tone was measured, exhibiting all the restraint in the world (and poorly). They strode forward, lifting a hand to shove Gabriel out of the doorway, as if he were some pissant subordinate that'd mucked up their morning coffee.

"Absolution," their gaze settled on one of the humans - slid slowly to the other, "Salvation. With this?" they ripped the pamphlet from from the lanky man's hands, holding it up before them. "We are beyond Absolution," the orange pamphlet sparked, and the beginnings of a small flame caught at the corner. "We are beyond Salvation. But here," they held out a hand, expectant. " _Offer._ "

As the Prince spoke, they allowed the buzz of insects to permeate their voice. A pool of black welled in the corner of one eye - almost resembling a tear - until it overflowed, and began to spill slick ichor down one cheek. They took a step forward. " _Offer,_ " they repeated, _commanded_ in that same chilling tone, gripping the pamphlet (now engulfed in flame) firmly in the other hand. " _Show us Salvation._ " The same black spilled from the corner of their mouth, and with it, two crawling flies.

If it wasn't enough to scare off two idiot fanatics, they didn't know what would be.

Gabriel rolled his eyes, glaring at the Prince for pushing him out of their way. He was about to protest, but took a few steps backward at the sight of Hellfire eagerly consuming the pamphlet. His visage was taut with discomfort, and his muscles tensed in preparation, ready at a moment’s notice to defend himself. 

The lanky man burst into tears at the horrific sight of the black ooze working its way down their cheek, whilst the portly man’s voice erupted into a high-pitched, pitiful scream. They scrambled out of the flat, papers fluttering messily in their wake; tripping over one another, they slammed the door behind them in terror. Their blubbering cries could be heard, trailing into silence, as they made their way through the building.

The Archangel relaxed, though not completely- and wouldn’t until the Hellfire was extinguished entirely. His gaze lingered on the Prince- icy and apprehensive. There was a tension in the air which made Gabriel wary, ready to strike. The sound of the tap sang through the kitchen in its endlessness. 

He gestured towards the door. “What was that all about?” he asked Beelzebub suspiciously, as if it were the Prince’s doing, born out of their malicious, demonic will. “Why were they here?”

Beelzebub remained until the humans were out of sight - at which point the tongues of fire licked in on themselves and extinguished. The Prince wiggled their fingers distastefully, ridding themselves of the last traces of the pamphlet - now mostly ash.

" _You,_ " their tone hadn't completely normalized yet, as they rounded on Gabriel - eyes flaring dangerously in anger, despite an otherwise lax visage. For their expression, one would expect them to yell, yet the Lord's tone was icy and flat. "I haven't slept for thousands of years. And _you,_ " there was a pause. For effect. "Ruined it."

" _You,_ " the words dripped out of them as if to mirror the odd substance dribbling slowly down a cheek, "were going to kill mortals." They allowed that statement to linger in the air as they strode off toward the sound of running water, which stopped seconds later.

After a long pause, there came a loud drawl from the kitchen - still buzzing audibly, incensed: "What told you it would be a good idea to open the door?"

Gabriel relaxed entirely as the Hellfire was snuffed from their palm. His eyes were cold, defiant, impossibly purple in the dim lights. “You”, he began loudly- obnoxiously so. The Archangel paused, mirroring the Prince’s, mockingly. “Don’t need to sleep.”

He _would_ have killed mortals and didn’t see the problem in it. Mortals were disgusting. Why did the Prince of Darkness care about the pathetic lives of humans, anyway? Heaven and Hell were ready to exterminate all beings from Earth, and would do so easily if it meant another War. 

He walked into the kitchen musing on his elitism, and leaned onto the doorway with a casual air. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” He chuckled humorlessly. “Open the door?” He shrugged, nonplussed, as if it were the only option. Truthfully- he hadn’t even considered keeping the door shut- and if he thought about it _really hard_ he would’ve come to the conclusion that Lord Beelzebub had the better choice.

Beelzebub had no qualms with killing mortals. They'd done it often. Many times, fondly. It had been one of the higher points of their career, when possession was still in fashion. Still, it didn't strike them as very angelic to do so indiscriminately. At least in the War, they would've been casualties. Today they would've been sad victims of the idiot Archangel's complete ignorance, which the Prince did not want to abide.

"I like to sleep," they countered flatly, still standing in front of the sink - staring tiredly at the wall. The obnoxiously bright, white wall. The already dimmed lights darkened further.

"Nobody actually opens the door. You ignore it. That's what humans do," they'd processed too many door-to-door salesmen not to know. "They ignore things they don't want to deal with." Beelzebub had noticed the shattered glass littering the floor, and was staring at it grimly. Two flies lingered in the vicinity, buzzing angrily around the Prince's head. The gunk still dripped down their face.

They looked from the glass to Gabriel, exasperated. "Why?"

The Archangel analyzed the Prince’s words, as if adding them to his algorithm entitled _humanCulture_. He made a mental note to ignore the door in the future, and made no attempt to determine whether or not the Prince was telling the truth. Lies didn’t exactly exist in Gabriel’s world- or, at least, he thought they didn’t. 

“Instinct.” He shrugged, as if dismissing the inquiry wholly, as if answering it was hardly worth his time at all. The Archangel’s words were matter-of-fact. His decisions were always perfectly logical- and, of course, perfectly decided. He was, after all, the Archangel fucking Gabriel. 

He stared at the Prince, looking them up and down critically. “You’ve got…” he gestured towards his own face wildly, with a grimace. “stuff.”

Scowling, Beelzebub drug their own fingers through the _stuff_ , and flicked it toward the Archangel. Any that remained on their face disappeared instantaneously - and as an afterthought, the Prince reached to neatly straighten their collar. The _stuff_ seemed... relatively harmless, on contact. Odorless and inky and otherwise inoffensive, when it wasn't dribbling down anyone's chin.

"I'm not cleaning up your mess," they indicated the glass shards with a curt, sweeping gesture, and glared toward Gabriel. Beelzebub had enough on their plate with the denizens of Hell - they understood that torture took its toll, but at what point did licking the walls become a viable hobby? Then again, at least they _had_ torture as an excuse. Gabriel was just... daft. 

They'd assumed Heaven didn't have much contact with the earthly plane, but didn't expect quite this level of disconnect. It wasn't as if Beelzebub was _overly_ knowledgeable in regard to humans - but at least they had a vague idea how to resemble one.

"Put it back together. Whatever it was."

He grimaced as the Prince cleaned themselves off. The _stuff_ materialized before it hit him, he made sure of that, but he sidestepped its trajectory all the same. Fucking gross. Although perfectly straight and wrinkle-free, he adjusted his jacket and scarf as if they’d been disheveled by the action.

Gabriel snorted, taken aback that the Prince would even bother giving him an order. He was not under their command- and, as God had proven with Her graceful resurrection- he never would be. “Put it back together?” His laughter was hollow- as if it imitated a real laugh but stopped short, only a shadow of one. “Of course not.” His smile would have been handsome, had it not been so shallow. 

He clasped his hands together, purple eyes shining, and said (a little too loudly), “So!” He fished the phone out of his pocket, wiggling it so that the Prince could see. “Show me how this works”. The Archangel’s tendency to command those around him- which mirrored the Prince’s similar habit-, was entirely lost on him.

Beelzebub glared at the phone in Gabriel's hands. It vanished as they gestured to the glass on the floor a second time. They weren't going to repeat themself.

"And stop laughing for no reason!" they demanded suddenly, cross. "Nothing's funny. You don't think it's funny. Everyone can tell you don't think it's funny. No-one cares." Except for Beelzebub, who was infuriated by it. Infuriated, at least, for the Prince of Hell - which meant a notably colder stare and not much else.

Without waiting to see whether or not Gabriel did, indeed, clean up his mess, Beelzebub moved past him and out of the kitchen. The blinds and curtains snapped shut simultaneously as they entered the living space, and they lowered themselves stiffly into one of the small chairs before the window.

The demon's eyes closed. As if they were trying to meditate away the irritation, the utter distaste for the angel they'd been set to escort. They wondered vaguely why it couldn't have been Hastur, and answered their own question with the knowledge that their Master appreciated a good joke. 

The Prince used to laugh at them too, and never once thought they were funny.

Gabriel sulked in the kitchen, alone now that the Prince was off doing Princely things. He stared at the glass, as if it would resurrect itself and tell him what to do. His eyes arced toward Heaven as he silently asked God _why_. Of all beings in the universe, _why_ was he to be stuck on Earth with this one? She didn’t answer, but the Archangel assumed it was a mistake of some kind. 

The Archangel waved his hand, and the glass found itself whole again… under the Prince’s pillow. Gabriel half-smiled, and it was genuine- he was overly delighted by his petty deed, even if he had to follow a command. He found himself pacing in the kitchen, thoughts mulling over Aziraphale and his demon, how he’d be able to contact them. He supposed he could look around the city. It shouldn’t be that hard to find an angel and a demon, right?

He walked through the living room, not bothering to say a word to the Prince, and slipped out the front door. Gabriel was ready to explore. All he had to do was blend in with the humans. How difficult could it be? Humans were simple, and so easily fooled. His footsteps echoed along the hall as he made his way out of the building.

Footsteps. The Prince's eyes cracked open. "Where are you--" Beelzebub didn't bother to finish the question, because the Archangel was already gone.

There was a moment. A long moment, where Beelzebub sat, considering the door. They could just let him go. Could let him wreak havoc and kill humans and condemn himself so they wouldn't feel _pity_ when they claimed his soul, because with every passing moment it was growing more and more apparent that there was not the slightest chance Hell would have Michael's. They could, they thought, with a twinge of delight, just leave him for dead.

But they didn't. Instead, with a long sigh, Beelzebub heaved themself up and walked out the door.

Gabriel was already out of sight.

The door to the sidewalk nearly burst open as Beelzebub hurried out, glaring around for signs of the towering idiot - and strode briskly toward him once he was in sight. "Gabriel," they demanded, impatiently, in an effort to get him to stop. Two flies struggled to keep pace.

Gabriel stepped foot outside, walked a few paces, and was already lost. There were so many buildings- which, to him, all looked exactly the same. Humans walked by, not taking notice of him whatsoever, except a few female humans who would turn their heads to stare at him. The Archangel regarded them all with suspicion.

He was secretly relieved to hear the Prince’s irritated voice, though he’d never admit it. He stopped, waiting for their short legs to catch up to him. “Where does the demon live?” he asked, head tilted down to look at the impossibly small Prince. “I must go to him.”

"No you mustn't," Beelzebub countered lazily. "The demon no longer has any involvement in..." the demon waved a dismissive hand between them, "this. Why would you need to see him?" suspicion edged itself into the Prince's tone, and they shot Gabriel a sideward glance as they walked by, continuing past him down the sidewalk.

Beelzebub was not familiar with this area. They didn't know where the demon Crawley was in comparison - but it wasn't far. They could _feel_ him, an annoying sliver in the edge of their thoughts.

Beelzebub's hands hung lax at their sides. It was such a strange contrast to other ethereal beings - particularly those who carried any sort of significant rank. Usually wound so tightly they seemed on the verge of combustion, the world seemed to flow past the Lord of Hell, a stream split by a stone that hadn't budged in thousands of years.

"You _must_ ," they continued without waiting for an answer to the question, "start thinking about Michael. We're on borrowed time as it is."

“I don’t need to see him,” he retorted. “I need to contact him.” With a sideways sneer, he added, “And I don’t have a phone, remember?” He shivered as the demon spoke the name. _Michael._ It was by God’s will alone that Gabriel was alive. Michael would have killed him- _did_ kill him. It was a fearsome task set before them. It’d be too easy to fail.

“I need to adjust here. On Earth.” he said, gesturing around them. “We will need time to plan. Michael will kill us both if we aren’t prepared. I think Crowley can help _me_ with that.” He stopped, violet eyes regarding the Prince with seriousness. “I don’t think they will tolerate your company, after what you’ve done.”

"You had a phone. You were insubordinate and lost your phone." It did not sound like something that was remotely Lord Beelzebub's problem. They'd tried to help him, he hadn't complied. In fact, he'd made an awful mess, and seemed intent on making more. Satan knew what he'd do if he had a _phone_.

"Only one of us has something to lose," Beelzebub pointed out, helpfully, tone flat though something about the delivery suggested... perhaps, a joke? A very grim one. Though whatever vague hint of mirth it inspired in their features was gone as Gabriel continued. The Prince halted to regard him, briefly.

"I am not responsible for your disorganization. I have one job. I did it flawlessly - until you demanded I let the demon go." The Prince's eyes narrowed, though there was an odd sort of conviction that swirled alongside the hateful glare. "Do you understand the gravity of what he's done? What either of them have done? Did it occur to you that I may not tolerate _their_ company?"

“I have nothing to lose,” Gabriel snarled, his eyes gleaming with dangerous power. His voice was low, and rang with coldness. “The Almighty has resurrected me for one purpose alone. My life is forfeit.” The Archangel looked fearsome, truly a monster of Heaven, and a dangerous energy emanated from his skin. 

He regarded Beelzebub with malice sparkling in his visage. “Without my reign in Heaven, where will Michael turn next? I don’t expect Hell will be safe from her Wrath.” He began to walk again, not minding his stride which was far longer than the Prince’s. As an afterthought, he added icily, “Principality Aziraphale is innocent. _You_ are the one responsible for Falling, and your punishment is yours alone. Hell has no claim to his soul. I would kill Crowley myself, were the angel not smitten by him.” The edge of his lip twitched, a testament to his soured mood.

At least, Beelzebub thought to themself, he wasn't laughing.

"Michael can't make Hell any worse," the Prince said, simply, and meant it. What would she do - kill them? Put an end to their eternal suffering, once and for all? It would be a mercy. No, Michael would do no such thing.

The Prince was not following him. They'd stopped there on the sidewalk, watching as he strode ahead, detached. "I wished for nothing from the Principality Aziraphale. His capture was ordered - by Heaven. His punishment ordered - by Heaven. We do not kidnap _angels_ because we feel like it. Hell _does_ have claim to the demon Crawley's soul. I allowed you to take him, regardless."

A dark thrum of _power_ seemed to suck the warmth from the air. There was no visible change in the atmosphere - there was no reaction from the mortals that milled between them, around them. But the change was _there_ , as if some invisible crevasse had split into the earth beneath them, was draining the air of any joy, any love, any _good_ \- a strange contrast to the almost electric sensation of holy energy as it steeped before a smiting. A power no lesser demon bore.

"If I return to Hell, I will be punished so thoroughly, and for so long, that your soul will be ground into oblivion before you find another who is able - or willing - to help you. You," The Lord was a dark spot in the landscape, sucking the color from the surroundings except they weren't, it just _felt_ like it, so earnestly it was hard to believe it wasn't real, "are God's messenger, and I have stayed to heed the call. If I'm wasting my time, tell me, and I will return to serve my _punishment_ in peace."

“It was _not_ ordered by _Heaven_ ,” he growled. The happiness was sucked out of the air- but the Archangel had none to give it. He had light- sure- but it was barren, waves of Divinity, pure and detached. It was the surface of the sun, blinding and burning so hot, it may as well been frozen. 

“God has tasked me with punishing Michael. I will do it, with or without help, with or without _you_ , even if it takes a thousand years.” His resolve was cold steel, unbendable, unwavering. His striking features, even in human form, were otherworldly, as he towered over the passersby. The draining color left him untouched- grey with blazing eyes, sharpened edges, unkind, and perhaps even cruel. He was the embodiment of an Archangel. Crafted with arctic perfection, to speak on behalf of God herself. 

Gabriel kept walking. He didn’t know where he was going, but he continued to go there all the same. He called out, waving his hand dismissively, “I don’t care what you do _Lord_ Beelzebub. It’s your damnation, not mine”.

Beelzebub cocked their head just slightly as Gabriel spoke.

The Prince didn't even have the capacity for anger. As the Archangel went on, it became clear to them that he was still just as blind as every other ethereal idiot that called Heaven home. Just as blind, they thought, and just as untrustworthy. They were an idiot to have trusted that he might deliver in the first place.

Beelzebub did not have a thousand years. Beelzebub did not have much time at all before their Master would drag them back into the pit, and if Gabriel could not deliver Michael, the Lord of Hell would deliver _him_ instead. They wouldn't have a choice.

The demon withdrew their phone and typed a brief message.

There was a flicker, the oppressive darkness lifting, and Beelzebub had gone.

* * *

The bar bustled noisily around them, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed happy. Their server led them to a table for two and didn’t bother giving them menus. The angel was smiling, as if nothing was wrong, as if nothing terrible had happened. There was a gogo dancer- tall and slender, suspiciously handsome- who tried to get his attention and Aziraphale made it a point to avoid looking at him. 

“Glad they’re still open. It’s quite late,” he chimed, keeping his eyes firmly glued to his companion. A few moments later, their server returned with a bottle of bourbon, two cups of coffee, and two slices of rainbow cake. “Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said, still decidedly staring at Crowley. 

“You’re welcome Mr. Fell. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? We’re glad to see you back. Nice to finally meet your boyfriend.” The server had a smile that faltered slightly on the word ‘boyfriend’. He hurried away into the kitchen, leaving the two alone.

The angel poured them each a glass of bourbon, sliding one over to his lover daintily. He took a moment to admire the cake slices- they were just so pretty- before taking the first delicious bite. “Mm,” he purred, “Crowley, this cake is splendid!”

The music swirled around them, as men danced together passionately, some of them kissing. Still, the angel’s eyes did not wander. They glimmered with resolve, and stared at the demon as if he were the only person in the world.

While Azirphale was beaming, Crowley seemed far less enthused with the choice of venue - par for the course. He lingered a few feet behind the angel as he navigated them through the space, hands in his own pockets and weaving past the crowd with his usual ridiculous saunter.

He wasn't in much of a mood to look ravishing, as he'd promised, but he did his best anyway as he oozed into the seat across from Aziraphale. One arm draped across the edge of the table as Crowley scanned the room, though in the dim light it was difficult to see the path of his gaze behind the sunglasses. The demon wasn't focusing on anything or anyone in particular - there was something almost anxious about it, though he disguised it as interest in the bar.

"Ah, that hurt him," Crowley observed, nodding toward the server as he darted back to the kitchen. "Old friend?"

Automatically, the demon picked up his own fork to take a bite of the cake. It was always customary, to try whatever Aziraphale ordered for him before he began to nudge his plate across the table.

"Is this your usual dinner routine, angel?"

Aziraphale added bourbon to his coffee- what little he could fit in the already filled cup- and took a sip. It wasn’t enough. With a curt sigh, he swigged out of the bottle. He saw the dancer in his peripheral, but did his very best to ignore everything about him. “No, Crowley. Not an old friend. Just a waiter, nothing more.” 

He ate a bit more cake, particularly enjoying the red layer, and then grabbed the demon’s hand. “I like to eat. You know I like to eat. I’ve only ever had _food_ here.” he assured him. His eyes stayed on the demon, loving him in his quiet anxiety. “We can go somewhere else, if that would make you feel better.” The angel offered, but he knew most places were closed by now. Fortunately Soho had a robust night life.

Gabriel was sitting on a curb, forlorn. Perhaps arguing with Beelzebub wasn’t a good idea. He’d purchased a phone but didn’t know how to use it. And, unfortunately for Gabriel, he didn’t know anything about batteries needing to be charged; he couldn’t even get the phone to turn on.

He was lost. He thought the bookshop was around here somewhere, though he’d only visited it a few times. There were a few places with loud music, and excessive laughter- perhaps he could go and… ask a human? It seemed ridiculous.

"I was just curious. Never saw what you do for dinner when it's not luxury dining -- what do you mean make me feel better? I feel fine!"

Crowley waved a dismissive hand in the angel's direction, but Aziraphale caught it, and the demon's fingers flexed slightly as he felt a rush of warmth flood up his arm. He took the bourbon Aziraphale'd poured him in the other hand and had a mouthful.

"I feel - no, it's fine. 's nothing else open. It's just a lot of people to keep track of," and the demon was - keeping track of all of them, or trying to. After all that had happened, he felt uncomfortable in the dense crowd. He'd never been the biggest fan of clubs - managed to find some fun in them, on occasion, but for the most part they were loud and uncomfortable and reminded him a bit too much of Hell.

Add to the mix that Michael was out to get them, and there was no helping it.

The angel relaxed a little and, for the first time since their arrival, his eyes scanned the bar. There _were_ a lot of people- even more than usual. The crowd was drinking and laughing, dancing and kissing. It didn’t seem at all dangerous to Aziraphale; Then again, this was likely why Crowley did the rescuing. 

He brought the demon’s hand to his lips, kissing it lightly. “I’ll be quick, love. Thank you.” After setting his hand down on the table gently, the angel took a long drink of his coffee, savoring the bitter flavors mixed with the smooth bourbon.

He quietly enjoyed his cake, eating it layer by layer, each flavor at a time. While it was a hurried pace for him- to the average person, it was still incredibly slow. The cake was spongy and sweet- Aziraphale enjoyed each bite happily.

A wisp of conversation could be heard, intertwined with the music. “ _Hello_ handsome... Can I buy you a drink?”. The voice was warm and inviting, purring to the gorgeous stranger. The supposed beautiful man responded, in a voice bordering on annoyance, “No thank you, friendly human. I am looking for a book shop? Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

When Crowley was satisfied that there were no immediate threats in their vicinity, he finally seemed to relax - or maybe it was just the pleasant warmth that only alcohol could provide, settling over him in its comfortable and familiar fog. "Take your time. No sense being here if you're not going to enjoy yourself - wouldn't have driven you all this way," the entirety of a five minute drive -- the sarcasm was back, which was a good sign.

He'd downed a few more bourbons and begun to sip the coffee on its own, like the heathen he was, when an unmistakably familiar voice - loud enough to drift right over the music - reached Crowley's ears. His stomach knotted, and he automatically sank lower in his chair. It was something of a gut reaction to the Archangel's presence; it was like he had a target on his back the moment he realized who it was. 

"It's Gabriel," he hissed, in a tone that suggested he had exactly zero idea what to do. He was immediately torn between his immense hatred of the Archangel, the knowledge that he'd saved him, and the immediate want to take full and complete advantage of their current location. "We - I think we should go?"

Aziraphale immediately dropped his fork and it clanked on the floor noisily. “ _Gabriel?_ Where?” He looked around wildly and half-ducked his head out of instinct. The angel’s eyes met Crowley’s and he nodded curtly. _Yes, let’s go._

Gabriel had helped them, but the angel was still wary in his company. He hadn’t been a _bad_ boss… but hadn’t been a particularly _good_ one either. The Archangel was dangerous, above all, and it was for this reason Aziraphale couldn’t trust him. At least, couldn’t trust him around Crowley. _Our side_ , he mused, _Gabriel isn’t on our side._

“OH! _Mr. Fell?_ Well why didn’t you say so? _Everyone_ knows Mr. Fell; such a delightful man! He’s here, you know, with his _boyfriend._ Talks about him all the time, but we’ve never met him until tonight. Brooding type, complete opposite of Mr. Fell if you ask me.” 

Except, Gabriel didn’t ask. Or care. “Yes, yes, delightful man, brooding type, very good; _Where_ are they?”

Crowley'd halfway slunk out of his chair when he registered the continuing conversation, and his brows knit above his glasses. "' _Talks about him all the time,_ " he hissed, "what is there to talk about? Why would you talk about m-- oh, no, no, no. Hurry, they're going to bring him right here--" the demon was speaking through clenched teeth, looking for all the world like the last thing he wanted in all of it was to have any sort of conversation with Gabriel.

It might not even be Gabriel. He was actually rather confident - at least in the moment - that the Archangel wouldn't seem to smite him. Not right here, not in front of Aziraphale - he seemed to concerned over the angel's well being for that. Strangely. Crowley didn't quite understand it. Didn't quite understand the motivations of anyone who claimed, as Gabriel did, to be such a divine and direct force of God herself.

He was not a fan of unpredictability. Angels were mercurial. Even Aziraphale was utterly capricious at the best of times - after six thousand years, he could barely handle _his_ sudden shifts in mood - he didn't want to take on the responsibility of tiptoeing around anyone else's eggshells.

"We could just," he mouthed, voice barely audible over the music, "meet at the Bentley - right now."

Aziraphale nodded, and whispered, “Yes, the Bentley, we can-“

But it was too late.

“Aziraphale! Crowley!” boomed a familiar, icy voice. “Fancy seeing you here, huh? I was looking for the bookshop but here you are- even better!” His hollow laugh rang through the club, and some people left the room. Others stayed, eyes glued on the three men. It seemed like a lover’s quarrel in the making. Dramatic. Juicy. 

“Why are you two sitting like that?” He waved his hand dismissively, as if he didn’t care for an answer. Gabriel didn’t take notice that, perhaps, the men were trying to evade _him_. “Never mind- I need a _favor._ It’s about _Michael._ ” 

He walked up to their table, pulling a chair from one nearby (ignoring protests from the people using it), and straddled it. His voice was lower, more of a whisper than before but not entirely. “I need a few things, so we can kill Michael.” Aziraphale was slowly and quietly rising from his seat, ready to make a break for the Bentley. He eyed Crowley as if to say, _Are we ready?_

“ _Sit,_ ” the Archangel commanded, the air suddenly crushing down on the angel, forcing him into his chair. He smiled but it was a cruel, daring one, and wasn’t close to reaching his cold eyes.

Crowley resembled something Dali might've come up with in his prime, dripping over the edge of his chair with his head ducked like it might help keep him from Gabriel's line of sight. He froze there, upon hearing his name in the other's mouth - and winced.

"Gabriel," he greeted, almost jovially, though there was no actual attempt made to mask the coldness in his tone - no smile. There might've been. There almost _was_ , for a moment, but then the Archangel had forced Aziraphale back into his seat and any gratitude Crowley'd allowed to linger was crushed in the same instant.

_Calm._

His lip curled into a snarl, though he supposed it might've looked like a smile enough, if one squinted.

"You need a few things," he echoed, "So we can kill Michael. One - who, precisely, is 'we'?" the demon corrected his posture - corrected his posture as much as Crowley ever did, anyway, which meant he sank back into the seat, liquid filling a glass - "Two - what sort of _things_ do you think we possibly have access to that could help you with that in _any_ way? Don't know if you'd noticed, but Michael's already got me once. Twice, technically." Because his recent trip to Hell had been Michael's fault too, hadn't it?

“Crowley,” the Archangel drawled, directing his gaze onto the demon. “I need a way to contact Hell. I believe you _do_ know how to be of service, don’t you? If _we_ ”- he pointed to the three of them- “don’t deliver Michael to Hell, guess who will be going back in her place?” 

He didn’t say- could be Crowley, could be Aziraphale- but the angel’s sharp inhale made it feel more serious, more like a threat. Aziraphale’s eyes burned with tears, and a mixture of sorrow and pain etched into his pale face.

“God herself resurrected me for the task, after Michael _killed me._ ” It was something of a gloat; at least, it was in Gabriel’s eyes. God didn’t resurrect just anyone, you know.

“For the most part, you two are useless.” He gestured to Aziraphale, and again to the angel’s stomach. With a darkened voice, he insisted, “ _Weak._ ” 

He sat up a little taller. “I am working with Beelzebub, who will take over once Michael is in Hell.” The sweet angel hugged himself, remembering the Hellfire’s sting, his eyes glazing over as he lost himself in the memory.

Crowley's jaw tensed as Gabriel went on, though his eyes weren't on him anymore - he was watching Aziraphale. He watched the way his angel shrank as the other addressed him, the biting words creeping into his consciousness as an afterthought, as if they didn't actually matter, as if only the other's reaction to them did.

"Michael wasn't trying to kill you," he observed, without looking back toward Gabriel. Crowley shifted then, slinking out of his seat and moving to stand, wordlessly, between the Archangel and Aziraphale. There was no uncertainty in the motion, no hesitation - and when those yellow eyes finally settled on Gabriel once again, the glare could be seen, _felt,_ even through the dark glasses. "I heard when it happened. Michael was trying to send you to _us_ ," the demon gestured downward. "Doubt it was God trying to save you so much as Michael being out of practice. Long time since she knocked the rest of us down. But I know that feeling, same dramatic quake and all, had to deal with it constantly when she was sending new employees left and right."

Crowley's words came slowly, casualness that dripped icy condensation.

"I don't want anything to do with Lord Beelzebub. I don't want anything to do with _Michael._ If I help you at all, it'll only be because I owe you - but," Crowley leaned forward, closer to Gabriel, "If you speak to him like that, ever again, I'll make sure that the last thing I do before you disintegrate me into a wonderful, holy mist is drag you down to the deepest pit alongside me. Do you understand?"

All the humor had gone from his tone.

Aziraphale looked at his companion lovingly, his heart swelling with adoration. No one rescued the angel. No one cared for him, respected him. No one except Crowley. Crowley, who always found ways to prove it to him. Who always seemed to show the angel that he was indeed valuable and worthy of affection, that Heaven’s opinion wasn’t absolute. 

The Archangel’s eyes danced dangerously as he regarded Crowley with a critical air. “I will speak to _Principality_ Aziraphale how he _deserves_ to be spoken to.” He stood from his chair, towering over the demon that stood in his shadow. While the angel was innocent, Gabriel still loathed him. He loathed the demon, too. 

The Archangel had an aura of violence. It surrounded him, engulfing them all in its stinging, heavy energy. If Gabriel had been pleasant before, he wasn’t pleasant now. “My soul,” he growled, “does not belong in Hell.”

“God is the only reason _you_ have been spared, demon,” he continued ominously, “She has a plan for you. For _both_ of you. Enjoy your time together while it lasts”. He handed Crowley a business card, by sliding it onto the table. “ _You_ will see me tomorrow. And keep your _pet_ at home”.

"Nobody's soul belongs in Hell!" Crowley spat, eyes flaring. "Not one! Not a single one of them! But you wouldn't know because you've never seen it, you _fucking_ idiot. You have no concept of what Hell is. You can't even wrap your tiny mind around what nearly happened to you, around what you're trying to to do, because you're so confident God will save you!"

The demon seemed entirely unbothered by the energy coiling around them. The music, he made sure, was loud enough to drown out their conversation - though there was a bit of a crowd milling, recognizing the posture of a fight before it began.

"Well, She did! Do you think it will happen again? Do you think She'll reach down a _Divine_ hand to rip your soul out if it finds its way to Hell? Do you think She _cares?_ There are a million of you," he waved a hand. "A million of us! If the first round's defective, She'll just send a new batch! You're expendable. We're all expendable. You've got to start thinking for yourse--"

_And keep your pet at home._

Not a second passed. Crowley reeled back, and swung a closed fist at Gabriel's nose.

Crowley’s fist connected with a soft slapping sound, hard enough for the Archangel to stumble back a few paces. He glared at the demon, touching his fingers to his nose, which came away smattered with blood.

The crowd swelled with violent delight and the angel let out a gasp, pulling his demon into his lap as if it would erase the moment somehow. “ _Crowley! Why did you do that?!_ ” he whispered hastily in his ear, coiling his arms around the demon and leaning away from Gabriel protectively. 

“What.. the.. _FUCK_ Crowley? Did you just _hit_ me? With your fucking _hand?_ ”

Aziraphale was pulling him back but it was like a plug had been pulled, like years of stymied violence were eager and ready to pour out of him, coiled beneath his skin as he tried to shift forward out of that hold. "Let me go," he ground out, "I'm going to fucking kill him." But it sounded rather less demonic and more _human_ , like he didn't mean to kill him so much as _thoroughly embarrass_ him in front of the entire room. A thin line he somehow toed brilliantly.

A rather large man, clad in black, was making his way through the crowd toward them.

"I _hit_ you, with my fucking hand!" The demon loosed something that was oddly like a cackle, edged with genuine mirth when he noted the blood streaming from Gabriel's nose. "Welcome to Earth. Now _fuck off_ it before I do it again!" There was no question that he would. That Aziraphale was the only thing stopping him - thankfully, he was effective at it. Even in his blind rage Crowley wouldn't hurt the angel, wouldn't rip himself away despite the want of it coursing through his veins.

As Gabriel advanced upon the demon and angel, two large humans grabbed his arms from either side, dragging him away. The blood had trickled onto Gabriel’s lip, giving him a wild, savage appearance. 

“I hope they drag you back to Hell!” He bellowed, though it was unclear if he was speaking to Crowley or Aziraphale. He let the humans drag him out, unwilling to kill an entire establishment of the filthy creatures. 

“ _He_ hit _me,_ ” he protested to the bouncers as soon as they stepped outside. One of the humans looked Gabriel up and down. “Listen up _sugar tits,_ ” he gestured lewdly at the Archangel, “Mr. Fell is the sweetest man on Earth. I don’t care what happened.” And with that, he and his companion turned and swiftly reentered the bar. 

Gabriel scowled, his upper lip twitched in malice, the blood miraculously wiped away. He began walking back to his flat. He sulked. Crowley’d better visit tomorrow, or he’d happily let Hell take his soul. It wasn’t as if Hell would kill Crowley. God wouldn’t be happy, sure, but technically the demon would still be safe. 

When the Archangel was out of site, Aziraphale warily released the demon. “I _cannot_ believe you!” he admonished. “Gabriel could have _killed_ you!” He was standing now, looking at the demon with fury in his eyes. Then, suddenly, he was pulling him close, kissing him with an anxious, desperate longing. “You stupid… stupid… demon…” he whispered between kisses. 

The crowd was dispersing but noises of revelry were abundant. Lots of whoops and _‘aws’_ , and _‘Get-it-Mr.Fell!’_ s. The bouncers ushered the crowd away, until the usual bustle of the bar had continued. It seemed quiet in comparison to the excitement just a few moments prior.

Crowley watched the Archangel dragged off with a welling sense of satisfaction - though it didn't quite override his want to give chase, to give him a couple of black eyes to fit the broken nose. He rose when Aziraphale finally let him go, took a single half-step, as if he might actually give in to those twisted desires - but then he heard the angel behind him, admonishing, and winced.

"You heard him, angel, God has a plan, we know he won't deviate from the plan. Besides -" but the notions of plans, of violence, of gleeful malice all dissipated, gone the moment Aziraphale's lips met his. His arms wound around him, drew him in close and Crowley sighed against him, chased the saccharine taste on his tongue.

"Wanted to do that since I saw him in Heaven," Crowley muttered, oblivious to the crowd, to anything else around them. "He deserved one. At least one," as if that were a totally reasonable explanation, as if it hadn't been a risk at all, just something that was natural and necessary in the grand and ineffable scheme of things.

Aziraphale hugged his lover closely, and while adoration beamed in his eyes, so did worry. “Crowley,” he whispered softly into the demon’s ear. “Please don’t be so reckless…” He pulled him closer, gripped him tighter; as if something were trying to pry them apart and Aziraphale alone fought against it. “Losing you, it’s... it’s worse than Hell.” 

The angel buried his face against the demon’s neck, his breath trembling with emotion. He clung to Crowley, unwilling or unable to let go, and feared for the future as he recalled Gabriel’s words. _Enjoy your time together while it lasts…_

"Couldn't listen to him talk about you that way," Crowley muttered simply, a bit more sheepish now that some of the immediate rage had bubbled away. It was an interesting rollercoaster, from fear to anger to something akin to elation - all mixed now in the warmth of Aziraphale's embrace, the driving force behind all of it. Everything.

"Nobody's going to take me from you." Crowley couldn't promise that, of course. He did it anyway. If anything in the history of the universe had proven where there was a will, there was a way, it was the demon and his eternal stubbornness. Even in the face of Hell. Even in the face of Gabriel. As if the very fiber of his being were created for the sole purpose of persisting for Aziraphale's sake. He turned, nosed briefly at a temple. There was none of the emptiness. He couldn't fathom that days ago, it'd even been a thought in his mind, that he might not be with his angel again; but then, when he was here, when he was with him, Aziraphale wasn't in danger. Things were different. He could fix them.

"Come on, angel," Crowley murmured eventually, gently, once he'd allowed Aziraphale time to relax, to settle into the notion that he wasn't about to vanish from the universe - he was right there, safe in his arms. "I'll take you home."

“He’s always talked about me that way. They all do.” the angel whispered, as if it were an inevitable truth- and one that he likely deserved. He caressed the demon’s cheek, and kissed him tenderly. It was the type of kiss that people made before saying goodbye- deep, and longing, and pained. The worry was plain on his face, but he said no more of it, and silently held Crowley’s hand, focusing on its warmth and weight. 

Aziraphale let his lover guide him to the Bentley. He slipped into his seat, and buckled himself in. His actions had a muted subservience to them, and a quietness, as if he were trying to be invisible, trying to go unnoticed for as long as possible. The angel wasn’t entirely convinced that Heaven- or Hell- or _someone_ wasn’t going to pluck him away, wasn’t going to tear him from Crowley’s arms, wasn’t going to plunge him into the deepest pit and never let him see the sun again.

* * *

Gabriel meandered his way through the London streets, and somehow found the apartment building. After going into the wrong flat- twice- he found the one which (surely) was his. He was weary, and angry, and confused, and happy to finally go inside, to laze around in a familiar place.

Except. The door was locked. _Beelzebub._

Gabriel let out a long, exasperated sigh and rubbed his temples. Of course the door was locked. Of course he’d been hit in the _face_ by a _demon._ Of course he’d gotten lost. _Of course he hated Earth._ He pounded on the door with a closed fist, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Open the door!” he yelled hoarsely, his voice echoing in the halls. “Beelzebub! Open! The! Door!” 

After a good while of beating on the wood, he knew the Prince wouldn’t budge. He slunk against it, lightly banging the back of his head against the door in frustration. His tone was different now. Softer. “ _Please._ Please open the door…”

Beelzebub ignored the pounding on the door. It managed to sync up almost perfectly with their pounding headache. They could hear the Archangel yelling, demanding, could hear as his voice faded into something of a desperate plea.

It was difficult to care, when it did. Difficult not to resign themselves to simply leaving the door closed, letting the idiot go about his business until he'd managed to work himself down to nothing, until it would be easier to claim his soul. _Care_ might not have been the word for what Beelzebub did, in the first place - it was too considerate, too _pleasant_. What Beelzebub did was try to keep order. Tried to follow the terms of the universe to the best degree they could, with what little direction they were ever given.

They recalled Gabriel, fearsome and awe-inspiring as he spoke with such certainty, freshly awoken - _forgiven_ \- as he stood upon scorched earth, and outlined what Beelzebub could only assume had been the _new_ Plan. It wasn't written. It was sealed, signed, and hand delivered. How could they ignore that?

The door clicked open.

Beelzebub hadn't gotten up to let him in. They weren't entirely capable of it, in the moment. Ever the good employee, they'd given headquarters an _update_ \- one they hadn't been entirely happy to receive. The Prince had known they wouldn't be; they'd been doing this long enough to know what news was good news. Any other type of news was generally a punishable offense; they'd accepted that the moment they decided to inform the rest of the Dark Council that Michael was, indeed, a lost cause.

_But you swore to deliver her._

_A spectacular failure._

_After thousands of years, putting your Faith in an angel to accomplish anything..._

_And what of the Archangel Gabriel? Did you not promise him in her stead?_

So on, so forth.

They didn't remember a lot of it. It hadn't been a standard meeting. Nobody kept minutes, because most of the minutes consisted of their punishment, the continued degradation and measured destruction of the mortal body they'd been forced to inhabit, to remain in when they were ultimately sent back -

Bad news or not, failure was not an option. The cycle would simply repeat itself until it ended in their success, or their death, and if the latter came before the first another would take the Lord of Hell's place to try again.

The fireplace was lit. Hellfire or not, it seemed to be the one thing keeping the small living room warm - the entire apartment, in fact, was impossibly cold, as if Hell licked at the Prince's heels, formed around them where they rested, wound into the corner of the sofa, their temple propped against an arm. The cream upholstery beneath their small form had been stained by the slow but steady drip of blood, dark and inhuman, though the iron-tinged scent was the same.

Their face remained untouched. They were glad for it, as they stared expectantly outward, waiting for the Archangel to appear. Maybe, they thought fleetingly, he'd smite them before they could react and it'd end the cycle permanently. Someone else could do God's bidding. Satan's. Whoever it was. It was a shameful thought, but for the first time Beelzebub didn't push it immediately from their mind.

Gabriel sighed in relief as the door clicked open and he slowly slid inside. The flat was dark, save the fireplace flickering ominously, casting long shadows against the walls. He noticed a chill lingering in the air, permeating his weary bones until he felt he was made of ice. It froze his breaths, which puffed out in front of him in smoky bursts. 

He saw the Prince, and immediately noticed the blood. Its smell seeped into the air, a metallic rot, the scent heavy and foul. Despite the cold which seemed to slow his movements, he ran to Beelzebub, hands glowing with soothing holy light.

Not all of the wounds could be healed- not by him- unholy creations, welted into the demon’s skin by means he couldn’t fathom. But he did what he could, in the time he could do it, before the Prince would inevitably tear away from him.

He cupped their cold cheek in his hand, the golden glow of healing light a brief flicker on his skin. The purple eyes which had so often scowled at the Prince showed more, worry, or perhaps fear. When he spoke, it was with a tenderness never before heard by them- or likely, by anyone. “ _Michael?_ ”

Almost as soon as Gabriel approached, there was a violent pulse of dark light - the same sort that had begun to overcome Beelzebub out in the world, as they watched him go - but this time it was fleeting, a mere flicker that didn't quite take hold. The Prince grimaced, jolting away from his touch as if it were something that, unto itself, might decimate them entirely - and used what little physical strength (which was a surprising amount) they could muster to push him away.

They didn't like the sensation. The _holiness._ It didn't belong to them, didn't belong near them, wasn't something Hell's royalty was meant to experience. The others would know, would sense it, _smell it_ , and Beelzebub could not afford the appearance of weakness.

"It'll kill you. In a way the _Almighty_ can't save you from," the words sept from them like blood from a wound - which, in the brief instant Gabriel had been able to help, had slowed considerably.

The tenderness jarred them. The pity, and something in their eyes darkened further - at Gabriel's question, for what was likely the first time, Beelzebub's laugh further chilled the air, cold and hollow. "Betrayal is punished in Hell. Failure is punished. I stand guilty of both. They'll heal when they're meant to."

“At least let me stop the bleeding” he spoke, a peculiar blend of statement and inquiry, the same tenderness woven into his voice, but with a sharpness to it as well. He didn’t wait for an answer. The light left him, the color on his face with it, and he settled into the chill completely. 

He met the Prince’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, tongue confused by the words which had not often left his mouth. “You were right. They were useless. Let’s make a plan”. 

For however cruel Gabriel seemed- and was- suffering always melted his heart, brought out what little kindness he had to offer. Perhaps it was the Divine love coursing through him, or maybe it was just a trait of his that he’d managed to bury away eons ago, but it was there all the same.

He dropped onto the floor and slumped against the couch, sweat beading onto his brow. There was a labored gasp in each breath, as if a lung had been punctured- and, for all he knew, maybe it had. Healing demons remained tricky business, yet again he found himself doing it. _I’d have made a good healer,_ he mused, _if I hadn’t gone into management._

Beelzebub's hands dug into the upholstery as the light flowed through them - the protest unceasing, as if it were _painful_ , as if they would do anything in their power to escape it - a sharp contrast to the almost voracious want for it, when he'd healed Crowley.

" _Stop,_ " they spat, eventually. "What do you think they'll do when they realize you _helped_ me when I'm supposed to be _bringing you back_?! Why don't any of you ever _listen,_ " the usually stoic tone broke slightly - splintered in anger and frustration. The damage was done, and Beelzebub was not pleased.

The Prince sat upright - forced themself, by necessity - for the sole purpose of slinking further into the corner of the sofa, further from Gabriel. Perhaps they should've just let him do it, let him ruin himself. They could've taken him back in an instant. And yet.

Ignoring a resistance to the idea they couldn't understand, Beelzebub steeled themself, willed their usual stoic demeanor back into place. Hell wanted Gabriel. God didn't. If She did, he'd already be stewing in the pits.

"You have more time, now. They won't expect anything until I've healed. When that happens - I will deliver an Archangel. Hell does not care which."

“You’re going to bring _me_ to Hell?” He winced, turning his head to look at the Prince. He was pallid and chilled; his handsome features were clouded with holy sickness, feverish and empty, a blight against his perfected soul. He didn’t wait for their response. A cough, thin and consuming, wheezed into his words. “Of course you are.”

He stood up, on trembling legs, and wobbled over to the fireplace. He all but collapsed in front of it, letting the dangerous warmth interlace within his spirit, fighting away the chill that threatened to consume him entirely. He kept his back towards Lord Beelzebub, not wanting to face them. 

Michael didn’t know he was alive. It was the only advantage he had. He knew it wouldn’t be enough, and he knew he didn’t have enough time. He felt a trepidation weave itself into his soul. There is no Salvation without Suffering. He would have to trust in God’s will; would have to know that, through the pain which was surely to come, She had not abandoned him. The time would be right, to exact vengeance… eventually. 

The light was visible around the Archangel, throwing a dark shadow in his wake over the Prince. The fire behind him licked hungrily at the darkness. After a time, his voice cut through the silence. “What a fucking day.” He laughed, hoarse with weakness, coughing as he caught his breath. “Crowley punched me in the face.”

"I told you from the beginning how this would end if we - if _you_ \- failed."

It wasn't exactly a gentle reminder, their voice still ringing cold, unattached. It was strange to hear, without the permeating buzz - not even a hint of it, as if even that had been sapped from them. It left the tone hollow, thousands of years worth of ceaseless torment having destroyed whatever emotion it might've held, long ago, before they turned from the light.

Michael didn't know he was alive. Beelzebub had considered the fact, too. In fact, Michael probably thought Gabriel was boiling away in the depths of Hell, thought the underworld was satiated in their want for a target, someone who might bear the brunt of their fury. A bandage for a festering wound.

The fire went out abruptly- then it flickered back to life, bathed Gabriel in its warmth. No longer dangerous.

"Crawley," they muttered, prepared to offer another lecture on the demon's worthlessness - on their want not to hear the name _spoken_ in their presence - but all that followed was a pause. A pause, and then, a laugh. A laugh that bore warmth to rival the fire, loud, and graceless, and contagious, permeating the silence, the chill that gripped the room. "Punched - in the face? _You?_ " The words were nearly wheezed.

Beelzebub could see it in their mind's eye, and it was glorious.

The Archangel found himself laughing with the Prince, their laughter infectious, an airborne disease, rife with contagion and curling itself into everything. His own laugh was less pleasant, a wheeze laced with ache where it began in his belly. It had been so long since he laughed- truly, out of joy- and he couldn’t remember the last time. 

He rolled onto his back, and delighted in the fact that the floor had soaked up the fire like a hot stone in the sun. With a happiness sparkling in his visage, he gazed upon the Prince, laughter lighting his features like a gift. “I insulted the Principality Aziraphale and… he just… _hit me._ He hit me with his _hand_ ”. 

More laughter, more coughing, as if he’d realized the absurdity for the first time. He tapped his nose, still blackened and the skin slightly puffed, with a minor flinch. “I think he broke my nose”.

Gabriel's laugh, ugly and full, only set them off more. They were laughing so hard it _hurt,_ worsened the ache in their bruised ribs, radiated through every cut and lash and welt this vessel wore, but none of the pain was enough to impede it.

The Archangel went on. Overdescribing. Beelzebub waved a desperate hand, trying to cut him off - they weren't even looking in his direction. The Prince was doing everything in their power to hide their face, turned to one side, masked behind a splayed hand as tears streamed from their eyes - real tears, normal ones, rather than the inky black substance that'd manifested in their attempt to frighten off the humans before.

"You pushed..." and it was breathless, and pained, and they were still laughing. "You pushed the idiot too far, that's-" they tried to claim a breath, and it shuddered into their lungs - fled them again immediately in another coarse explosion of laughter. "that's - you've deserved that for _centuries_ -"

A part of them was sad they weren't there to see it for real. Beelzebub's eyes flickered to Gabriel as he tapped his nose - and as if registering the sight of it for the first time, the laughter started anew. The Prince doubled over, clutching their stomach, looking anything but regal in the process. "Oh, fuck."

Gabriel’s laughter bubbled out of him until his wheezes and coughs took over the majority of the sound. He, too, had tears in his eyes, which somehow made the purple even more radiant, more beautiful. Despite his pale, clammy skin, a flush of pleasure, pink and lovely, settled itself onto his cheeks. Beelzebub was likely the first person- and the last- to ever see it. 

He described more of the story, filling in the gaps between fits of coughed laughter, enjoying himself perhaps too much and perhaps for the first time, ever. “I mean, what even is a sugar tit?” 

He coughed- harder than before- his lungs burning with each breath. “Ah, fuck,” he said quietly, moving his hand away from his mouth, which was still sculpted into a smile. The corners of his lips were tinged red, and his tremulous hand was mottled with drops of sticky red blood.

Slowly, but surely, the Prince of Hell began to regain themself - though it was a slow process, further hindered by the story that kept drawing forth new gasped fits of laughter. "I don't - I couldn't tell you." Their tone, which had rung so hollow only moments prior, almost retained something of its old mirth. Something of the soul that had been flayed time and again until it could no longer heal, almost to the point of non-existence. The barest suggestion that somewhere, beneath the grime and filth, there was something more than the ruthlessly rigid creature they'd become.

Almost. But alongside it all, there was still the fact that their unhindered glee was the product of suffering - Gabriel's suffering, in particular. Although he hadn't suffered overmuch. While Beelzebub would never admit it, the _absurdity_ of the notion that someone - Crawley, of all people - had _punched the Archangel Gabriel in the face_ was far more hilarious than any pain they could imagine for him.

They didn't have to admit it. Not really, because what finally broke the spell was the sound of the ragged cough. One which was quite familiar, to the Prince. The sight of blood confirmed their suspicion. "You should have listened," they pointed out - grimly, though the tears on their cheeks still glistened in the orange glow of the firelight. "You idiot."

With great difficulty, but made to look effortless, the Prince raised themself from the couch, and crossed the small space to reach Gabriel. Crouching behind him, cold eyes taking on the hue of the dancing flames, they considered the situation.

"I should just wait until you drown in your own blood and drag you back." But there was no move to harm him further. No move to do anything, actually. The demon had met his eyes, was staring intently as they'd never bothered to look until this moment. Beelzebub had never seen anything but emptiness there - a familiar sort that rivaled their own.

The Archangel had a warmth in his eyes that danced with the smile on his bloodied lips. The flush of jollity seemed paled against the blood, but it still dusted his pallor with a splash of life. He looked content, as if he weren’t laying on the floor dying, as if he hadn’t been cast out of Heaven, as if he wasn’t about to be tortured in the depths of Hell.

Gabriel’s eyes took in the sight of the Prince’s countenance. The tears that shone in the light- tears of joy that mirrored the ones streaking his own face. It only took a brief moment, but he committed it to memory. All of it. It was unlikely and unexpected but, perhaps, it was worth getting punched in the face for.

“Won’t be long.” he said, violet eyes glued to their own, a regal air of acceptance clinging to the words. He had Faith, and was willing to suffer for it.

"You need to learn," Beelzebub muttered, as their eyes finally shifted from those brilliant violet ones, reaffixed themselves to the Archangel's chest, heaving with the desperation for air. It wasn't as if he needed it - but then he did, because if this body died, who know where his soul would emerge again - "to think ahead."

The Prince's energy was not anything like Gabriel's. It was not soothing, or warm, or wrought of the Lord's grace. It was cold. Jarring, as it gripped his lungs, tightened around them, as if it was meant to squeeze the last dregs of life from his body. A heavily weighted _void_ that wound insidiously through his Divinity, coiled alongside it, embedding itself in the emptiness his attempts to heal them had left behind.

It gripped the Archangel for an instant, terrible and numbing. And then it stopped, and Gabriel could breathe again.

"If you get yourself killed, I won't have a say in what happens next."

He cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure echoing in his voice and spreading across his face, as he felt the cold, unyielding grip of the Prince’s demonic energy wind itself into his soul. He was breathing deeply, shakily, and one hand firmly gripped his muscled chest.

The Archangel gazed at the Prince in stunned silence. On some level, he’d felt _violated_ \- the energy so crisp and sinister, painfully cold- yet, strangely, it was almost pleasant. It was almost _intimate_. Gabriel had never experienced a sensation like this. His thoughts were muddled, preoccupied with feeling the dark energy coursing through his very breath, cradled into the cavity of his lungs.

The pink remained on his cheeks, though not of laughter this time. The confusion and pleasure and pain were bared in his eyes for Beelzebub to see, unashamed or, more likely, unaware. His lips were parted as if words were about to tumble out, but they didn’t. He had none to spare. He was motionless, yet somehow overwhelmingly expressive, staring at the demon as if they were some new, interesting, undiscovered creature.

Beelzebub's eyes lingered briefly on the Archangel's bruised nose as they drifted back to his face, but the demon ultimately decided it would be more satisfying to leave it - a pleasant reminder of the event that'd brought them such joy.

The Prince's gaze, forged of that same cold steel, whatever joy had existed there already wrapped beneath the layers of their threadbare spirit, found Gabriel's. It wasn't quite a glare - mildly inquisitive as they observed the Archangel's interesting reaction.

While Beelzebub was not the sort to _deal_ in social interaction on the whole, they were not entirely clueless. In fact, it was an essential skill to their job - oftentimes the one sentencing, the one deciding exactly what manner of eternal punishment the wayward spirits in Hell would receive. They needed to catch the small changes. The insecurities. The fear. They needed to identify what made their targets whole, that they could break them appropriately.

Certainly, this time, the Prince was wrong.

The scowl returned to their features.

" _What._ "

“I didn’t say anything!” Gabriel sputtered, a little too loudly, as the pink on his cheeks darkened to a feverish red. He looked away, unable to meet the Prince’s gaze for another moment. “Thank you.” It was little more than a whisper, the Archangel’s voice laced with an unusual hesitation, as if he’d done something heinous, something he ought to be ashamed to be grateful for.

His face and eyes betrayed a lusty pleasure, and an uncoiling desire, but it was fleeting, pushed away as the Archangel donned his Heavenly mask. Like it never happened. Like they’d never shared a moment. Like the demon’s frozen touch wasn’t presently (and pleasantly) violating his soul.

“Bed.” He said, with a flat, pained voice, heaving himself up with great effort. He toddled across the space on woozy legs, decidedly not looking at the Prince, and disappeared into the next room.

Beelzebub, still crouched before the fire, angled their head up lazily to watch him go. Expressionless, save for the usual downturned corners of their mouth, the tiredness that permeated their features at all times.

"You don't need to sleep," they called after him, echoing the Angel's earlier reminder, and there was a quiet sort of smugness to their tone.

Eventually, Beelzebub rose, and moved back to the sofa. They sat heavily - unguarded, unwatched, and loosed a slow exhalation as they rolled their shoulders, canted their head from one side to the other in an idle stretch. The Prince did not trust in their ability to ascend the stairs - not at present. They needed time - even standing had taken an excruciating amount of effort. They were glad, in the moment, to be here. Here where there was no need (at least not while Gabriel slept) to feign strength where it was faltering, like an injured pack animal well aware there were others waiting in the ranks, waiting to usurp them at the first sign of weakness.

Gabriel had seen it, though. Twice now, throughout the entirety of their existence, though the first time was nothing but a dim memory anymore - a flash of light, and darkness, and darkness still. The second occasion was new. Had just occurred, because in healing the Archangel, the Prince of Hell had spared him. Again. This time, from something they weren't entirely certain he didn't deserve.

Unease coiled in the Prince's gut at the realization. The last time, it had cost them everything; a single act of kindness which, as it turned out, they hadn't been able to afford.

God spared him, too. There had to be a reason. The Almighty did not intervene unless it was entirely necessary. Beelzebub, for all of their faults, had always strictly adhered to whatever plan God laid before them - always fulfilled their role, dutifully and by whatever means seemed necessary to do so - because Beelzebub had learned, long ago, the consequences if they didn't. If they knew anything of Hell, anything of the horrors of the world and beyond, they knew things could _always_ get worse - and they had no intention of angering Her again.

Tonight, The Prince would not sleep. They'd sit awake, gazing at the fire, considering the wrath that awaited them - Heaven's, Hell's - and wondering at which was worse.

Gabriel paced on weakened legs. He ripped off his coat and scarf, tossing them without a care, and undid his tie. The bedroom felt small. Suffocating. As if the walls were slowly climbing towards him, pushing the air out of the room, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe.

_What just fucking happened?_

The room felt hotter by the moment, and soon he’d be in nothing but underclothes, pacing endlessly in purple boxer briefs and long grey dress socks. Although he was alone, his visage was a smooth mask, containing his affect, keeping his countenance flat and hollow.

The worst is that he still felt it. Whatever it was. He relived the frosty fingertips of the demon’s energy, brushing itself along his soul, along his thoughts. The tears on their cheeks and contentment in his heart. The painful pleasure that threateningly coiled somewhere he was sure it ought not to be. The Archangel shivered.

It was ridiculous. _This_ was ridiculous. Why did the Prince spare him at all? Again- after what happened before? He shouldn’t remember it, but he did. He always would. They likely remembered it too. His rise, their fall.

Gabriel flopped on top of the blankets, a cold sweat beading on his bare chest, and he sighed. He tossed and turned, in a wasted effort to get comfortable, thoughts drifting to unexplored places, feeling undiscovered sensations.


	26. Wine in the Morning

When Crowley'd said he'd take the other home, he had of course been referring to the book shop. He'd made himself at home, too - as much as he ever did, occupying his usual chair and drinking himself into a pleasant haze that allowed him to ignore the unpleasantness of his thoughts, which - these days - consumed him more easily than ever. He found it all rather karmically unjust.

He'd - after assuring the sheets were no longer tainted by Gabriel - laid with Aziraphale until he'd fallen asleep, had offered him all the comfort he could muster, the warmth, the love. Hitting Gabriel (with his hand) had put him in a relatively good mood, though he knew it unsettled Aziraphale. Crowley had confidence, now more than ever, that the Archangel was no longer a threat to him. Stupid as Gabriel was, he wasn't the type to go against God's word, and apparently she'd given him a talking to - implied they had some sort of purpose to serve, in the scheme of things. Which was all well and good, because the demon didn't much abide Her messages, anyway. He'd gently reminded Aziraphale about the nature of the original Plan, how it'd all turned out, tried to assure him that it didn't necessarily mean whatever Gabriel thought it did. He'd been so very wrong before, after all.

Once Aziraphale'd fallen into a deep enough sleep, the demon had - painstakingly slowly, so as not to jar him - extracted himself from the angel's hold. He'd claimed a fresh bottle of wine, and made his way to the back room - where on the one hand, he felt less like he was intruding on the space, and on the other, he knew he could keep a closer eye on things - make sure none came or went who weren't meant to. He'd told Aziraphale before he slept that he'd likely leave the apartment to keep watch - had managed, somehow, to stay strong even in the face of the angel's pout.

Briefly, he diverted into the shop proper, where he meandered the familiar shelves, yellow eyes scanning for any interesting new editions. None caught his eye. He did, after a moment of consideration, pluck a book from the shelf - eyeing the cover. "Shall She, Shall She," he echoed to himself, vaguely amused, and tucked it back into place. Moore. Not what he was after.

Milosz, maybe. He'd met him before, in the depths of his struggle to rekindle his faith - or to keep the fire burning. Prime target, he would've been. But Crowley hadn't bothered, and he'd gone on to win a Nobel Prize. Funny how that went. A few more moments of scanning and he'd found what he was looking for, making his way back to his usual seat. He cracked the book open in the dim light, swigging his wine, squinted down at the pages. He didn't really have to read them. He knew most of them already. He was wrong about angels. About prayer. About most everything he believed in. Humans, however, he'd always got right.

He read, only half-attentive, all the while listening for any disturbance, and waited for Aziraphale to stir.

The morning light drifted through the window, and caressed the angel’s rounded cheeks. He slowly opened his eyes and rose, stretching to the ceiling, feeling the stiffness of sleep fade away. He smiled.

It had been a pleasant night- falling asleep in his lover’s arms, feeling Crowley’s warmth and love. Even his dreams were splendid, as they were filled with Gabriel getting punched in the nose, repeatedly. In some of them the angel was even eating sushi, or crepes, which made the impossibly perfect scene even more wonderful. _Lovely_. It was a brand new day. A _better_ day.

He shuffled into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, and got dressed while the kettle was on to boil. He was in a casual mood, donning a light blue button-up and tan slacks. No vest, no jacket. Not even a tie. He put on his fuzzy blue slippers and retrieved his cup of tea, humming happily to himself.

Aziraphale meandered downstairs lazily, sipping tea all the while, walking past stacks of books with a great sense of comfort. _Home._ It was so lovely to be home, and it was even lovelier to be here with Crowley.

He smiled at the demon in the backroom- reading, of all things- and he sat quietly into his chair, taking care not to disturb him. The tea tasted better, the lights were brighter, the chair was more comfortable- everything was better in Crowley’s proximity. The day was _so beautiful_ and new.

In any normal relationship, the angel might've gotten a 'good morning'.

What Aziraphale got was a low murmur, half-slurred, from a demon who'd not so much as looked up from his book to regard him. "Fiji," he announced, apropos of nothing, and held up the open book. He'd been through a number of them, throughout the course of the night - numerous poets were scattered (carefully) at his feet - but the one he held in his hand at present related to geography - islands, in particular.

"Private villas. 'snice and warm. Surrounded by ocean. It's an archi-" Crowley turned the book back toward himself, and squinted at the page - reading for too long was hard enough on his eyes; doing it drunk was an entirely different beast. "-archipe- archipelago. More than 300 islands. Even if anyone found us it'd take _ages_ to figure out which one. We could find... we could go to one of the little ones. Nothing but ocean and sand. Plants maybe."

He tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow a hiccup.

“What are you on about, love?” The angel smiled, savoring the last sip of tea before placing the cup on the table gently. He walked over to his very drunken lover, to get a closer look at the book he was crookedly holding, and slipped an arm around the demon’s shoulders.

Despite the less than ideal circumstances, presently, it was still very much a very beautiful day. Aziraphale was relieved to see Crowley’s drunkenness wasn’t motivated by a depressed, sulking mood.

As he pulled the demon in close, the smell of alcohol was overwhelming. “Crowley- you’re quite drunk!” He half-admonished it as if he wasn’t already expecting it to be true. “Come, dear.” He led the demon over to their chairs, book in hand, and pulled the drunken man into his lap.

“Now. Slow down. Tell me all about it. Take your time.” The angel knew what he wanted, roughly, but watching the demon garble his words was too precious to pass up.

The entire point of Crowley's drunkenness was to repress the depressed, sulking mood. It'd worked marvelously - along with his sudden, obsessive desire to find the perfect earthly destination to run off to. Alpha Centauri was off the table, fine, he'd make that trip alone sometime, but certainly Aziraphale couldn't complain if he wanted to go somewhere closer to home? Somewhere where Heaven and Hell might not stalk them at every turn?

Crowley automatically moved where Aziraphale bid him, and settled - a little too heavily - into his lap, where he spent a moment shifting to coil himself into the space, most of his weight settled into the angel's chest. "Fiji," he explained again, and tapped the book with an open palm.

"I really don't -" Crowley grimaced (he was wearing his glasses, which he'd put back on sometime in the night), "-I'd rather not bump into Gabriel 'round every corner. Wants _help_ , like I can give him any help," he was grumbling, as if to himself, "dunno what he thinks I could - anyway. Fiji. 's far enough they couldn't find us, right? And it's not out in space, which I _know_ is off the table, but it's about - well, there're tourists. But it's remote! Loads," he gestured broadly with the same hand that'd tapped the book, "Loads of islands. We can find one nobody's on or - or rent one. I'd imagine we could rent one."

Aziraphale did his very best to contain his giggles, which were attempting, quite forcefully, to bubble to the surface. His face was bright and cheerful, and the love was carved into his soft features. He watched the demon, blue eyes shining with patient devotion, as he tried to explain something about Fiji.

The angel’s smile was overtaking his face, and it twitched as the laughter tried to climb out of his throat. “You want to… rent an island? … That might be interesting for a few centuries…” He put his hand to his chin, as if in deep thought.

He made a show of ‘hmm’ing and ‘huh’ing, as if he were truthfully considering the idea, tossing some random words around- ‘tourists’, ‘remote’, ‘beaches’. He twirled the demon’s hair and kissed his cheek.

“Oh, I don’t think I like Fiji,” he said with a contrived air of distaste, after a moment that was just slightly too long.

"Could just stay on one of the big ones, but - have to be around all the people," Crowley'd thought back to the cottage, the restaurant, and wasn't overly enthusiastic at the prospect of being around anyone at all. As Aziraphale thought it over, the demon's face grew rather more serious for a moment - and he once again failed at suppressing a hiccup.

"Oh," he'd said, after, quite obviously deflating - but then he simply flipped to the next page. "Tonga. Hundred and..." he glanced back down to the page. "ninety-six... sixty nine! Hundred and sixty nine islands. Still enough to hide in, right, and they've got rainforests... think they've still got rainforests. Used to be some there, at least. Have you ever seen one? I mean, really up close? In... _sane_. I made some of them, you know -" another hiccup, "-not these ones. Least, I don't think so. But I think you'd like them. Maybe not the bugs," he squinted behind his glasses for a moment. The bugs were probably a bigger deal breaker than the tourists.

"Well," and he closed the book. "I don't think - it doesn't really have to be an island, but we should go. Somewhere, you know, where it'll be harder to track us down. Iceland or something."

“No, no,” he shook his head vehemently; “Oh no, I rather hate bugs. Can’t go there. Certainly can’t go there.” His face was red with suppressed laughter, delighting in the demon’s innocent cuteness. He knew he should stop playing around, but he was having so much fun, and it wasn’t hurting anyone. “What’s wrong with being around people? It might be better, being around people. Easier to blend in, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale found his interested piqued, despite his intentions. “Hm, Iceland? Beautiful there…” he said dreamily. “Lots of volcanoes, too. Plenty warm, with all the hot springs. All the geothermal.” He found himself earnestly participating, finding himself genuinely intrigued as he continued. “The yogurt is Heavenly, bit of honey, some cinnamon…” His eyes were glittering now, the prospects enticing him with the possibilities. “Iceland is the most literate country in the world, you know. Lots of books there. Beautiful libraries…”

He shook his head slightly, knocking himself out of his daze, before he got too involved- as if he wasn’t already. “No. No. Uh- I think you’re a bit too drunk to have this conversation, dear.”

Crowley continued to miss the cues that might suggest Aziraphale was being facetious, and thus continued to wilt as his brilliant ideas were shot down. "I mean, 's easy for you to blend in. Last two times we've been out around people I almost got arrested. Or - well, arrested or punched someone in the face. But I think it's only the fact you were there, saved me the second time."

As Aziraphale seemed to express interest in Iceland, Crowley perked. It did not occur to him that the angel, who seemed to know quite a lot about Iceland, also knew it was an island, and so he felt vaguely victorious in his efforts. "Iceland, then. We'll go to Iceland - 'm not too drunk. I have my best ideas while I'm drunk, don't - I'm serious! What do you mean, 'have this conversation', 's not like we can't come back whenever we want! What about 'this conversation' demands sobriety?"

“It’s a serious decision, Crowley. And we shouldn’t make serious decisions when either one of us is drunk!” He insisted, feeling flustered that he’d gotten wrapped up in the conversation at all. Aziraphale had never been good at resisting the demon’s temptations- it wasn’t going to magically happen now.

“Why do you want to go away so badly? And for how long? They’ll find us, wherever we are. We can’t escape Heaven or Hell.” He was very resistant to leaving London at all. Though, with a slithering guilt, he remembered the first time they had this conversation, and the second. How long could he delay the inevitable and go off together, or, how long would he continue breaking Crowley’s heart?

It was clear- Crowley wanted to dive in. He wanted to run away, he wanted to move in together, he wanted to just _be_ \- no outside influences, no Heaven, no Hell. Just them and their love, never leaving each other’s side.

"'s not a serious decision! It's a vacation!" A vacation that would take them very far away - preferably for at least a decent amount of time - but he'd take what he could get. Which, at the moment, didn't seem as if it were going to be much.

"We could at least -" there was a pause, and then an utterly defeated sigh. "Could at least try to make it a bit harder for them, 's all." Crowley slunk off the angel's lap, bringing the book with him, and sauntered past the table - defiantly grabbing the bottle of wine off it as he did. For a few moments he vanished back into the shopfront, slotting the book back where it belonged - the ones scattered around his chair vanished from their places as an afterthought, returning to their spots on the shelves.

He drank deeply from the bottle - took a moment to regain himself, and meandered back into the room. "Just needed something to occupy myself while you were asleep," he waved a hand behind him in the general direction of the shop as he settled into his usual seat, "You - well, least I don't think you've got anything new in." Nothing Crowley's speed, anyway.

Aziraphale stared at him with an angel sized Pout. "I won't speak of it further. Not another word of it until you're sober!" He knew he ought to start packing his suitcase, as he watched the demon dejectedly cart the book off to put it back on the shelf. He'd already lost.

The angel smiled to himself, watching the books miraculously disappear to their proper places. As defiant as the demon pretended to be, he wasn't. Not really anyway. Aziraphale knew now that he was just acting out, just trying his best to keep them safe in the only ways he knew how.

When he returned to the back room, the angel looked at him expectantly. "Well...?"

"They'll find us, wherever we are," Crowley parroted with an expression rather like he wanted to gag on the words. "'s no point. And you said - not another word until I'm sober, so. We don't need to talk about it anymore," he raised the wine bottle, as if in a toast.

The demon, thoroughly drunk and incapable of reading the room, had taken Aziraphale's words as (another) refusal, and it was already well on its way to burying itself beneath a mountain of other concerns that ranked higher.

"I'm going to stay drunk all day," he announced resolutely, the newly decided topic of conversation. "Because eventually," his voice took on an air of mock regality as he said the name, "The Archangel Gabriel is going to come wandering through that door -" he pointed. To the door. "-- or he's going to make some dramatic entrance, with all the lightning. And he's going to make me help him with - I don't even know what he thinks he's going to do, Satan himself would tell him it's a fool's errand - but if I'm good and drunk I'm no use to him, am I? Just irritating enough he might decide it's not worth the effort. Tactical... tactical advantage."

He frowned.

"Suppose I taught him how to throw a punch, though. Think-" another hiccup, "-think he'd be any good at it?"

The angel rubbed his temples and debated on whether asking Crowley to leave would be a good idea. He decided it most certainly would not be. He stewed for a few moments listening to his companion drawl on and on, each drunken word a razor fraying the last threads of his patience. Finally, he couldn't listen to another word.

"Fine then!" he sighed dramatically. "I suppose I'll have to choose an island all by myself. At least there'll be _tourists_ to keep me company..."

He heaved himself out of his chair, making a display of it. All of his movements were excessive and loud. He snapped his fingers with a wide gesture and an oversized tartan suitcase plopped itself onto his chair.

"I suppose I'll need some clothes, and.. oh, my passport of course... hm, money, yes..." He spoke to himself, projecting his grumbles to reach the demon's ears, making a point to visibly perform each miracle for those yellow eyes to scowl at.

"Now where ever in the world was that book?" He asked the air loudly, ignoring the demon as he walked out of the back room. He knew exactly where it was, though in that moment, decided he needed some hot cocoa, perhaps laced with something far warmer. Although it was a miracle and waited for him, the taste would be lovely. The angel walked up to the kitchen to treat himself, leaving Crowley to sulk in the room alone.

"Day is _still_ beautiful" he reminded himself, through gritted teeth, cocoa in hand. "So fucking lovely".

"But you didn't want t-" Crowley began to protest, and stopped with a visible wince as the other went about loudly collecting his things. "You - I can get it for-," but Aziraphale was already gone, and the demon had deflated quite thoroughly into his seat.

Crowley stared into the space after him, mouth slightly agape, though it gradually settled into a wretched scowl. He didn't, in his stupor, understand Aziraphale's upset. He'd taken it quite graciously, he thought. Hadn't pushed the matter or whined about it, anyway, and he'd figured the punch in the face would've always been good for a laugh down the line. He eyed the wine bottle in his hand, contemplating. Then he took another drink.

Normally, he'd just go. But he couldn't just go. And he most certainly wasn't going to sober up now, because.. well, who knew what Hell awaited his sober mind, if the drunk one had the capacity to feel so terrible.

The demon rose from the chair and - wavering a bit - made his way out into the shop-shop. Make himself scarce, he supposed, and leave Aziraphale be. As much as he could, anyway, which was a difference of about thirty feet, the distance between the chair he'd _been_ sitting in and the one he claimed in the shop front, elbow to the table before it and chin rested heavily in his hand.

At least in the flat, he mused, petulant, they would've both had appropriate places to skulk off to.

Aziraphale finished his liquor laced cocoa and descended the stairs back down into the shop. He grabbed the book and stopped at the sight of a very drunken demon. "Still drunk then? _Honestly?_ " he tutted, tears stinging his eyes. "Really wouldn't have thought you'd choose alcohol, but.. but.. _fine_. _Fine!_ "

With a furrowed brow he began collecting a pile of first editions, stacking them neatly in the chair next to the demon. Agnes Nutter, Shakespeare, Nostradamus, Oscar Wilde. He was grumbling to himself incoherently, getting more upset with each passing second.

He disappeared into the back of the shop, looking for his misprinted Bibles, talking to himself all the while, every so often over enunciating certain words like 'boyfriend' and 'drunk' and 'together'.

"Choose alcohol over _what?!_ " He demanded, suddenly, flinging his arms out as the angel milled around, doing... whatever he was doing. Packing. Getting ready to move to an island somewhere. He didn't know.

"You said you didn't want to go! Said it wouldn't matter! I don't even know why you're upset! I was trying to graciously let it go!" the words verged on desperate. Not angry, not hysterical, just... utterly confused.

"I said I didn't want to talk about it until you were sober!" He shouted from somewhere in the stacks of books. "I can't just run away with you on the drunken promises that you actually want to go to _Fiji_ or _rent an island_. You always want to drop everything, but what about _my life here??_ " There were noises of books falling, some smacking the floor with a loud echo. "I'm.. I'm supposed to just wake up and immediately go along with your whims of the day?"

Crowley lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment, and loosed a long sigh. As he did, he was overcome by the immediately unpleasant sensation of alcohol leaving his system. Thirty seconds of the world's worst hangover, and he was sober - at least, sober enough to pretend to be sober.

"You asked me the point, as if I were an idiot," Crowley leveled, and the change was immediately apparent - no longer slurred, _tired_. "I don't want you to drop everything. I want you to be _safe_ so that you can _have_ everything you want. We've got eternity to have whatever we want, but we won't if they catch up to us... and they already have, here." It didn't even sound like an argument anymore - just a flat mix of dejection and irritation, mostly with himself.

"I don't know what it's like. The having a life bit. One track mind," he glanced longingly at the wine bottle, but resisted the urge. "Anyway. You don't have to go along with anything. But you could just say 'no' instead of... whatever this is."

"There is no point," he reaffirmed, still calling out from his stacks of books. "Heaven and Hell will always be able to find us, whenever or wherever we are."

Aziraphale strode over clutching a stack of books to his chest, which he promptly dumped on the chair. He met the demon's eyes and despite his lecturing words, his gaze was soft, loving. "Whatever this is? Crowley- This me _saying yes_ ".

He reached a hand out, cupping his lover's cheek with a gentle touch. " _Yes,_ " he reassured his companion at long last. "Let's go, together. To an island, to the moon, to- to- I don't care where, as long as it's with you."

Crowley'd always expected that when this moment came, he'd be elated. But as it stood he was exhausted, confused, and the slightest bit hurt - though he couldn't exactly pinpoint why. He didn't even know what was happening. He watched Aziraphale as he moved closer, perplexed, and frowned as the angel cupped his cheek.

"You couldn't have just said it in the first place? Why?" he couldn't just accept it this time - he didn't understand. And he was feeling, if anything, far less reassured.

Aziraphale resumed messing with the books next to him. "I told you- I don't _want_ to leave. I like it here. And I'm not about to go off somewhere, only for you to sober up and change your mind."

He sat on the floor and sighed. The angel looked tired. It was an exhaustion that persisted since his time in Hell, and despite his efforts to contain it, it showed. He rubbed his eyes, considering his next words wisely.

"Its takes me longer to... adjust to things, Crowley. You always want to jump in, but... I can't. I need time. I need to know it will be okay. You've asked me to run away together how many times? I'm coming around."

The angel didn't know how to describe his skittishness- his own tendency to run away if things weren't just so. "It has to be _right,_ " he insisted. "It has to be perfect."

"You're more important to me than anything." He gestured around himself, at his books, his home. "But you're... well, more dangerous, too."

"Change my mind," Crowley repeated, letting the words hang in the air, as if of anything that'd ever left the angel's mouth they were the most ridiculous he'd ever heard. Slowly, he pushed the air from his lungs - watched as the angel sat on the floor.

He didn't understand the notion of 'jumping in', didn't understand what the problem could possibly be, because he already _had_ ; Aziraphale was the one sure thing he knew. Had ever known. Crowley'd damned himself to eternity for him, knowing - at the time - it'd likely be the last conscious decision he ever made. He'd come back for him, time and again, had _waited_ , for six thousand years, and Aziraphale'd said _forever_ and Crowley wanted to remind him that they had no way of knowing when that would end, wanted to tell him that even if crossing the ocean bought them another hour of time it'd be worth all of the irritation - but he was becoming increasingly aware it probably wasn't the case, the other way round. Which was fine. Just difficult to remember.

The angel had other things worth worrying about in his life. Crowley had Aziraphale, and Crowley had the Bentley, the latter of which he'd already sacrificed once to return to the former's side.

"Right. Well - if it won't make a difference there's no sense in rushing it, is there. I'd rather - you know. I'd rather wait until it'd be a good thing. I'm really - I shouldn't keep pushing it. 's just hard not to want to."

"Crowley," he said, voice thick with fatigue and irritation. "I don't want to change your mind. I know that you're right. We both do." Aziraphale knew he was being ridiculous - knew that six thousand years ought to be enough, even if somewhere deep down a new anxiety began to fester.

"How's leaving now a good thing? It isn't a good thing for you either. You don't want to leave to enjoy a vacation, you want to be on the run. That isn't the same thing at all, in any way, to how I'm feeling?"

Aziraphale swiped the books from the chair in irritation, thumping his head quietly down in his hands in their place. He groaned. "Why are you trying to talk me out of it now, after I've already said yes?" He did already say yes. The hard part was supposed to be over.

"We can go. We can go right now. I _want_ to go. I'm not entirely ready, but so what? I turned my back on Heaven for you. Isn't it proof enough of what's important?"

"I'm not.. I don't want to talk you out of it, if you want to go. But I don't want you to go just because I've _worn you down_. How do you think that feels?" Crowley was trying - and perhaps failing, to be forthright. He still wasn't sure exactly how the conversation had wound up at this point - and he was growing more and more anxious as he went on, as if he recognized the impossibility of the situation.

Drag Aziraphale he didn't want to go, or don't, and -- still be wrong?

"I mean. I would've enjoyed it. I don't know. I'm on the run or I'm forced to hatch an assassination plot on Gabriel's behalf -- an assassination plot who's target could kill me without a second thought. First option seemed more productive, long-term. Gabriel finds a way to deal with Michael because of course he will, for his own sake, and I don't wind up back downstairs. Seemed more a good thing than willingly bumping my name up on the Eternity-of-Torment list. It's already fairly high." He shrugged - and felt oddly cornered by his own explanation. Like it hadn't really sunk in until that moment.

"Was it Iceland, then?"

At the mention of Hell, the angel visibly tensed, and fought back the urge to shudder. He'd never forgive himself- or anyone else- if Crowley got sent back to Hell. Aziraphale would do everything in his power to go in his stead, if it came to that.

" _You're_ not going back," he whispered, with an eerie conviction, as if he knew something he shouldn't. "You're _never_ going back. I'd sooner sell my soul, be in the pit for eternity." The angel's words weren't necessarily meant to be comforting- just factual.

"Yes" he groaned, head still resting exasperatedly in his hands. His voice was muffled by the chair in its breathiness. "Iceland. The beautiful, romantic, remote island of Iceland".

"No you wouldn't," Crowley warned him, flat and resolute. "If you did, I couldn't forgive you. I'd take your place every time. It's where I'm meant to be, anyway. Not you."

Crowley'd dug his mobile out of a pocket, was holding it idly, staring at the screen. Everything about this felt wrong. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing, and amidst the uncertainty, a jolt of anger twisted in his gut. Mostly, it was directed at himself.

"I'm not going to drag you someplace you don't want to go," he said, eventually. "I can't. I don't want this, not this way -- I just -- I thought it'd be a good thing. I didn't think - I wasn't trying to make it so difficult. I'm sorry."

Aziraphale heaved himself up with dramatic effort, only to plop himself into the demon's lap. "You'd be safe. That's worth more to me than anything else, anything in the world. Worth more than me." He coiled himself around Crowley, limbs draping themselves over chair and demon alike.

"I want to go. Please take us. We're both being difficult now. I'm sorry. I should be more..." He took a moment, to ponder the words. "More trusting. Have more faith in you." His face found its way to the demon's chest, burying itself, inhaling his scent.

"Iceland." He stated pointedly. "The tickets are in your pocket already."

"I'd be nothing," Crowley countered, tone hollow at the notion. "I've been through it twice already, I couldn't - I wouldn't be able to do it again," the words were more desperate, quieter. "Tell me you wouldn't do that, Aziraphale. Please. I wouldn't be safe; it'd be worse than Hell. You can't," and as he went on, it became readily apparent that even the notion was enough to send him into outright panic - his hands lifting to twist into the material of Aziraphale's shirt. Iceland, sure, they could go to Iceland. It didn't matter when the angel was talking like that.

Aziraphale felt the hands losing themselves in fabric, heard the ring of desperation in his lover's voice. His heart panged with grief and ache. He was backtracking now. Lying.

"I... yes. I wouldn't, love. Don't worry." He attempted to soothe the demon, despite the heaviness in his heart. He couldn't bear to picture it. Hell had tortured Aziraphale in every possible way, violated his body and his soul. He knew he would do anything if it meant Crowley didn't suffer through it, too. The scar itched angrily, skin feeling a frozen, burning tingle.

"It won't happen anyway, because... they're not going to find us, right? We'll... we'll be in Iceland." All lies. They dribbled from the angel's mouth as if of their own volition. He hoped at least they would erase the hurt from Crowley's face. The angel hugged his companion closely, his heart racing with guilt, and melancholy eased its way into his eyes.

"I can handle Hell, I've handled it - I've, it's nothing, not in comparison," Crowley's head angled forward, face hidden against Aziraphale's shoulder. "I don't have anything else, I don't have - there's no reason, if you aren't here." He was still stammering, quietly frantic. The hiss crept into his voice, the careful facade that was Anthony J. Crowley fissuring as he clutched the angel in his arms. His form was all tension, rigid beneath him.

"If they take me, if I know you're still - I could find my way back. I would. Whatever I had to do. But if they have _you_ they have both of us; I couldn't leave you. I wouldn't."

He quieted for a moment, though his breath was slightly ragged, as it had been, gossamer thread stitched through murmured pleas. This worry made one too many, weighed on him too much, beyond the tenuous tipping point of the careful composure he'd constructed, piecemeal, over thousands of years.

"I'll take you to Iceland - we can stay in London. Whatever you want. Anything you want, angel, always, just promise me you won't ever do something so stupid." It wasn't even that he disbelieved him. He just couldn't collect himself quickly enough in the face of what was absolutely his greatest fear.

The angel’s visage bloomed with fresh grief, hearing his lover’s lips entertain such a desperate plea. He could feel the pain in the air, laced with a cold, hollow, anguish. He wanted to heal it away, but knew that he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough, and never would be.

“It’ll be okay, love,” he whispered, words muted and culpable, “They’re not going to take me. They’re not going to take either of us.” He cradled the demon, soft ‘shs’ and ‘its okay’s drifting through the air between them, as he stroked Crowley’s hair, thumbed the angle of his jaw line.

He found himself gripping his companion tighter with tremulous hands, despite himself being the consoler, memories flitting through Hell like a flipbook of torture. There were tears stinging his eyes, but they miraculously never found their way down his cheeks. He would be strong now, for them. For Crowley. Even in his lies.

When his love seemed calmed, even though it was tenuous at best, he led him upstairs into the kitchen, preparing coffee. Mostly out of the need for something to do. Something to break the tension that he’d unwillingly created.

It'd taken some time for the demon to collect himself. He'd stayed there, unmoving, wordless, after the outburst - held in the warmth of his angel's arms and trying desperately to allow it to sink into him, to permeate the doubts and the fears which had so unexpectedly overcome him.

Eventually - as always - it did, and slowly, guided by his angel's voice and comforting murmurs, the Crowley managed to will himself something closer to calm. "If.. if it happened," he'd murmured at some point, "they wouldn't let me go. Not again. They'd keep us both. You can't," but there was less desperation - it was more akin to a statement of fact. One Crowley knew to be entirely true.

Gradually, his breathing slowed. His form relaxed, though the overtight grip on Aziraphale's shirt lingered for some time, the demon loathe to let go. Like the moment he did someone might materialize from the aether, might tear him away again. Still, it was something closer to his usual level of fear.

He followed Aziraphale unquestioningly, stewing in the silent embarrassment that crept over him, though it wasn't enough to stop him loosely gripping his hand. Crowley didn't actually let go until the angel busied himself - at which point he moved to sit, self consciously smoothing his palms down the front of his jacket.

Aziraphale placed a black coffee (laced with a bit of whiskey) in front of the demon with a weary smile, and sat next to him at the kitchen table. He observed him closely, scanning for signs of panic, of grief. His hand found the other’s and gently squeezed, but the angel said nothing. His other hand entwined itself in Crowley’s hair, petting him tenderly. He couldn’t find any words to say- nothing would erase their nightmares of Hell, of losing each other.

The angel’s countenance was encouraging, lacking the judgment that Crowley most certainly feared. He only had love to show, doing his best to squeeze the worry somewhere deep down, out of mind until he’d be alone to let it crush him with its heaviness.

Aziraphale brought himself closer, nuzzling the demon’s cheek, kissing his neck softly. Everything was slow, tender, conscientious. It wasn’t the first time the angel found himself stitching Crowley back together; love the only thread strong enough to merge the seams. It wouldn’t be the last time, and, thankfully, Aziraphale had a seemingly infinite amount of love to give.

There were no signs of panic, no signs of grief. There were no signs, in fact, that Crowley had experienced the emotional moment at all - he'd settled back into his usual self, the thoughts internalized, deeply involved in his own mental conversation.

"Thanks," he mumbled, accepting the coffee to take an overeager swig. He regretted purging the alcohol from his system, and was thankful to taste the bite of it beneath the bitter notes. For a while, he basked in the silence - basked in the angel, in his space, in the well timed gestures of affection - let them wash over him like they might dissolve his troubled thoughts entire.

They nearly managed.

Eventually the demon sighed, a quiet sound as his body relaxed, sank against Aziraphale - tiredness this time, rather than grief. "I'm sorry," his own lips grazed the angel's jaw. "I didn't mean to worry you, or to.." he waved a hand. "..to ruin the day, I'm just - it's difficult. I don't know what to do half the time."

“It’s new for us both,” reassured Aziraphale, cupping the demon’s cheek. He guided him closer, bringing their lips together for a brief, comforting kiss. “Six thousand years, it was one way and now…” he whispered, kissing his lover again, more deeply this time, as desire’s warmth spread across his chest. “.. now it is different. It’ll take us both time to get used to it”.

He lingered, close; their foreheads pressed together, and attempted to still his racing heart. Now wasn’t the time- not for _that_. “I’ll… pack some more. Need to run a few errands before we go. Why don’t you get some rest?”

Crowley returned those kisses, slow and _needing_ \- chasing the second to prolong it before Aziraphale managed to pull away. "I still don't.. I'm used to trying to hide it all. Been doing it so long I don't know how not to. I don't know what normal's like - not that we're _normal_ anyway - but. I've never done any of this," he hadn't forayed into _relationship_ territory before at all - it was a stressful time, to try navigating one that was so new (six thousand years old) and so important. "And trying to do it with all that's going on," he didn't feel the need to elaborate, "I just hope you'll be patient with me a while.

Aziraphale talked about packing, and errands, and Crowley automatically reached out to grip his upper arm - a silent request. _Stay._ "We could leave tomorrow. I'll help with whatever you need."

He smiled, but it was a shadow of his former jovial brightness. It was laced with weariness and an invasive emptiness- a vacant portion of his soul, lost, left somewhere in the belly of Hell.

“It’s the least I can do, love. You’ve been patient for thousands of years. I barely waited a century.” He reminisced for a short time, mind’s eye watching his lover hop around on the church’s consecrated floor, handsome in a suit- even more so in his thoughtfulness. He found his gaze loitering on the demon’s lips, wanting.

“No, no. We will leave today. Absolutely today. I’ll try to make it quick- won’t do it manually, I suppose.” Unable to resist, he found Crowley’s lips once again, drawing out the moment, a hushed utterance of want emanating from this throat.

He miracled his most treasured first editions into his safety deposit box, wanting them securely tucked away, not chancing them to be in the bookstore for an undisclosed amount of time unattended. His tongue explored now, slow and savoring, and the sound of their lips smacking together was a pleasant symphony. Crowley’s bag found itself packed, resting expectantly at the front of the shop. Aziraphale’s followed soon after.

Crowley could see the difference in his smile. He'd loved his smile for thousands of years - all of them. He knew the true ones from the false ones, knew the ones he used when he lied, when he schemed, when he was joyous, when he was embarrassed. He recognized the faint, smug quirk of lips whenever he relented to a request - however obnoxious. This one was new. And while he didn't like it, he loved it still.

The demon lifted a hand between them, his thumb grazing just beneath the curve of Aziraphale's lip. Exploring the new expression. "I hope you know," he began, his gaze lingering on the other's lips even as he drew closer. "I hope you know," he repeated, as if it were difficult to voice aloud, "That everything I do, it's to take care of you. That I'll always take care of you."

Their lips met, and the demon all but sighed into the exchange - calmer, and calmer still. The edges of sorrow still lingered - there was no hiding them from Aziraphale, not now, not after the morning's events - he didn't bother to try. But they had faded considerably, buried beneath that same resolute certainty: by whatever means he could, he planned to make sure Aziraphale never wanted for anything, never hurt for anything. It would take time - a lot of time. He could only hope they had enough.

His grip on the other's arm tightened slightly, a silent promise, reinforcing the words.

“I know, love” he whispered into him, melting together further, slow and forceful. “I know”. He felt the heat rising between them, steady and subdued, a candle in the night. Their breath danced together, warm, inviting.

The perishables were donated to the church. His electronics were unplugged. Their passports and tickets rested alongside their bags. Their coffee cups were cleaned, resting in the cabinets.

Aziraphale was pulling himself closer now, straddling the demon, his back pressed against the kitchen table. His hands cupped Crowley’s face, their touch placid and hesitant, not wanting to go too fast, not wanting to push too far.

A map tucked itself amongst their luggage, followed by monies of several currencies. The book shop became immaculate- not a speck of dust, nothing out of place. His plant was whisked away to a surprised, but knowing, barber.

One arm wound its way around Aziraphale's waist, snug, drawing him in closer. The other lifted, a hand sliding to cover one of the angel's as it bracketed his own features, fingers slotted between his, not quite intertwined.

"I'll find a way to keep you safe," he promised, more himself by the second, as if the closeness, the reassurance were all the sustenance he'd needed, as if the angel'd reached down to pull him forcefully from the overwhelming hopelessness that threatened to swallow him at any moment, his own recollection of Hell, the loss, the despair. "To make a safe place for us," he corrected himself, between those slow kisses, each its own breath of air.

The angel had run out of distractions, and quickly lost himself in their moment, whisked away by the honeyed words dripping out of his lover’s soul. Each promise lessened his despair, diminishing any negative tension wound in his muscles, as it bore warmth into his heart.

He found his movements quickening, each whisper an encouragement, an implicit acquiescence, baiting the angel into further caresses. His freed hand trailed itself lower, wrapping itself around a rib languidly. The angel’s hips rocked- a subtle, gentle movement- but it was compelled, a reflexive reaction to the building arousal between them.

“Everything’s ready” he whispered, between deepening, sloppy kisses, and light moans of pleasure. It was an offering, Aziraphale’s only way of giving his companion a chance to break the contact, knowing he wouldn’t have the control to do it himself.

Were Aziraphale anyone else, Crowley wouldn't be speaking to them. Would still be immeasurably angry, and hurt, and tired of their presence, and probably would've left hours ago. But this was Aziraphale, and the demon only drew him closer.

Fucking. _Angels._

"Not yet," he breathed, barely audible between them, and Crowley's hips were moving of their own accord, rocking at a staggered pace against Aziraphale's. The hand resting over his tensed, the fingers curling downward to press into the palm against his cheek, holding it there. He wanted him - needed him, demanded the closeness, the union, the opportunity to grant him _something_ when he'd made such a mess of things again.

"You know, angel," Crowley's tongue flicked out against the other's lower lip. "The Bentley practically drives itself." Yes. He was definitely feeling better, because there was no question from his tone, from the slight arch of an eyebrow that peeked out behind dark glasses, that this was his best attempt at a fresh new temptation.


End file.
